#the chain gets robbed

[infernothechaosgod]

Its off hours they get to chill

(Also yeah pete is suppoust to be without his peg leg here, he just has a shrinker on👍)

[tottymatsuno]

Working on my robot au and i decided ichimatsu would be the brother that would be extremely popular bc hes marketed as a domestic companion. There'd be someone in a civil rights legal battle with the supreme court to actually allow ai-human marriages to be legally recognized, with an ichibot.

I say this for several reasons, but mostly bc i can see yall doing that.

Osomatsu would be the cheapest to buy secondhand bc he keeps accidentally gaining real sentience and uses it immediately to gamble, commit crimes, fuck around and over all do osomatsu related bullshit. But he can drive! Thats his special feature!

I have ideas ofc for the other ones but lol ive been thinking "and osomatsu can drive too please stop returning him you cab use him as a taxi driver and make money off of him you just have to be okay with the fact he might hit on your customers or crash your car, or steal your money to gamble pleeaaaseee we're trying to fix this in Series 4!"

[masatos-wig]

bad news boss. 100+ hr bg3 save file again? 5th one im afraid boss.

[how-the-feathers-have-fallen]

Dumping the start of the tags here cause tumblr has a tag limit of 30 :/ sorry op

Okay hold on

also more things I couldn't fit in. after cuddy bails out choreman chase gets assigned a bunch of clinic hours as Punishment TM. But mom-dad wilson (house is dad-mom) keeps him company till house gets angsty and comes to bail him out pick him up.

More I couldn't fit in at the end so I dumped here outta order:

wilson teahces the ducklings to paint since obvi house passed down his musical talents

rich kid chase got assigned clarinet at age 6. he's ok but has 0 heart. house jokingly points him towards a lyre in a music shop and he takes to it instantly. house go to tease him (baby angel lookin-) but chase looks so overjoyed and he says something like "look just like David played for Saul" so he melts on the spot (and convinces wilson to by him a kinnor so he doesn't know its his idea. he sings like a screeching alterboy tho)

I think cameron can sing but she's quiet and stumbles so she refuses to get formal training. she's tear rendering on a cello tho. surprisingly she can dj like all hell too. she had a wild college life before her 1st husband

foreman can sing smooth as silk. but he can't play an instrument to save his life (no patient for it). his dancing though? stage worthy. can be convinced to show off after a couple drinks.

Obsessed with the whole vibes of early season one of House. The ducklings have the energy of dysfunctional siblings along with their insane Vicodin-addict father. Wilson isn’t shown to have an office yet so he just lingers at House’s side while constantly and giving him fuck-me eyes. Wilson will just sit in on diagnoses and give his advice like he doesn’t have any responsibilities in the world. When the team needs to (illegally) shrink a patient’s tumor so it’s small enough to operate on, Wilson just says “alright” and does it along with Cameron. Chase does a silly American accent to fool a patient’s mother and it WORKS. Foreman is new and already despises everyone. House comments on how fuckable Wilson looks when Wilson is simply wearing a green tie and nice shoes. An old woman says that House has the same bedroom eyes as Ashton Kutcher. At one point the team, House, Wilson, and Cuddy all gather together in the small lab room to discuss a patient and are all basically brushing shoulders. Wilson reads a love poem out loud in the middle of the hospital to House. House eats tomato sauce that the team suspected was killing the patient. Wilson ditches his wife on Christmas Eve to go hang out with House and it shows a montage of them laughing and eating take-out. Cuddy greets House and Wilson by saying “hi, boys” like they’re kids. Foreman and Cameron are tasked to search a patient’s home and Foreman eats the ham he found in their fridge because he was hungry. The first scene with House shows him and Wilson walking down the hallway literally brushing hands and shoulders despite the hallway being huge. One of the first things Wilson does is lie to House. Wilson asks House — who rarely ever takes cases unless he finds them really interesting — to take a case and House just takes it. When asked why it was so easy, House just looks at Wilson with a smirk and says “you know why” and then they both smile at each other. This is all in the span of the first eight episodes.

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ this one’s on me ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ s4 .ᐟ spoilers, cussing, dean’s really just suffering omg, and he’s also like, secretly smitten over reader; small age gap, a slow-burn build up to car sex, grinding, nip sucking, oral f receiving (he’s such a tentative munch pls), unprotected p in v, fluff. lmk if I forgot any :))

synopsis — dean’s physically free of hell, but he finds that his own demons have never really left him. having already made his fair share of bad decisions, he figures that it couldn’t hurt to make one more—the pursuit of you.

word count ~ 10.5k (i’m done apologising y’all know how carried away i get 🤟)

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Rowdy occupants teetered throughout the local bar, their cheers and protests slurred by this evening’s two-for-one special on all drinks. The bar was lively enough on most nights, but always in a manner sophisticated enough for Dean to enjoy a glass or two in comfort. Now, the space had become a raging fest of body against body, and the music was so loud that he could feel the ringing of his ears pressing all the way into the back of his eyes. The abrupt change in atmosphere felt personal, like it’d been specially planned to further tug at Dean’s gradual undoing.

His elbows were propped onto the bar top before him, fingers restlessly tapping at the sweaty, glass keep of his beer. All around him, barmaids wove frisky lines to tend to drunken groups seated along either side of him. Occasionally, one of the girls would attempt to cast their hook into him with an overzealous offer to top up his drink, and a candid nibble of their glossed lips, but he’d nicked their lines at the ready.

Any other night, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to show those gorgeous barmaids a time to remember, but as of now, he had other company to entertain—the unwanted and persistent voices in his head. Sounded insane, huh? Quite frankly, he was starting to feel the part. It was making him a bit of a downer, and that wasn’t much his style with the ladies.

Dean’s head lolled between his hunched shoulders, where he glimpsed his lonely reflection in the bubbling amber of his drink. He realised he must’ve stood apart from the bar’s bustling and cheerful atmosphere like a sore thumb, sat in broody silence as he indulged his second beer with a hefty frown on his brows.

He could have scoffed at the idea of being alone. If only onlookers had the ability to peer into the depths of his tainted mind, then they’d know that he was anything but alone.

True silence was a luxury Dean had long since been robbed of. It was a concept that held hands with peace, but there was no peace to be found in a soul as wretched as his. He didn’t deserve it—not after everything he’s done.

Those years he’d spent wrapped up in hell had remade his psyche in all the worst ways. And even now, as he walked amongst the living once again, it felt as though a fraction of the underworld had carried through and engraved itself in his very DNA.

He felt tainted by its touch—heard the way it mocked him with the voices of all the strangers he’d tortured to spare himself the same turmoil. It looped in his mind like a sadistic ear worm. Every hour, every minute, every damn second of the day. And to top the icing on the screw you cake? He had no idea how to make them shut the hell up.

It hadn’t always been that way, though. The first time it happened had been a rough week or so after his return. He’d taken on a rather grim job with his brother—a chain of victims that had been tortured to the death by a rogue demon. Dean had let out a wry scoff when Sam had first told him the details. He had a hunch on what that was about.

The demons hadn’t had any say in Dean’s release from hell. If it were up to them, they’d have kept him in a glass display for all eternity. When Cas had pulled him from the fiery depths, the angel had just about pissed off every single demon down there. They knew they couldn’t lay hands on Dean and drag him right back down to his eternal misery, so they’d taken to doing what they did best—causing havoc. And they’d found just the way to make it personal.

Each victim the brothers had found had been tortured in a different way—methods that were all too familiar to Dean. Methods that he’d invented. He’d had years to become creative. Each sighting had mortified him, and he’d had to swallow several times to suppress the bile adamantly reaching up to strangle his airways. What hurt him the most, though, was having to put on a detached facade for Sammy. His brother had no idea what Dean had been through down there. . . what he’d done down there—and why should he? He’d be more than eager to offer up a steaming fest of pity and guilt if he knew the truth, but Dean didn’t deserve any of that. It was all his own doing. His choice.

Cas might’ve liberated him from his physical hell, but he’d never truly been liberated from anything. Most of the suffering had always come from within, anyways.

They’d never found the demon responsible for the murders. It almost made Dean believe that he’d reverted back to his primal nature and killed all of those people himself. He’s hurt people before, so what was stopping him now, right? Maybe he’d done it in his sleep. Maybe, as soon as he’d let his head hit the pillow and dull his battered mind into a much needed deep sleep, all the worst fragments of his subconscious would pull together into some twisted alter ego that came to kill at his unspoken will.

Had Cas freed an innocent that day, or had he just unleashed another, wretched demon into the world? Boy, if it was the latter, Lilith surely had nothin’ on him.

The voices had started ever since that disturbing case, and they were yet to leave him alone.

It’s almost as if that cheap, goddamn knockoff on the real events of his life had been last switch that needed flipping to tune his mind into hell’s channels. Now, he heard them all—the voices—at every frequency and at every volume. And it didn’t matter how hard he cranked up Baby’s radio, their agonising pleas would always pull through in a haunting backtrack. One time, while he and Sam had been on the road, the voices had grown so loud that it made his eardrums feel as though they’d implode. It had hurt like a bitch, pushing him to the brink so that he’d lose control of the wheel and swerve into oncoming traffic. Thankfully, dear ol’ Sammy had been quick enough to grab ahold of the wheel and steer them clear of the looming truck they were en route toward.

The truck’s bellowing hooter had set him straight again as it whipped past the rear, almost as though it were the stern chiding needed to pipe those asshole voices right back down. His brother, bless his soul, had offered to drive them for the rest of the day, quiet concern alight on his features. But Dean had declined almost instantly. Sam hadn’t pushed to know what had overcome his older brother in that very moment; he’d known enough to pin it onto the aftermath of hell.

For the rest of that day, the younger brother had said nothing about it, but he did cast a few, fleeting glances with those damned puppy eyes of his. Dean pretended not to notice. Furthermore, he’d chosen to forget that that instance had ever happened. Fake it til y’make it, right? He didn’t need to look worried—didn’t need to make Sammy worry.

How his brother had grown up unmarred by Dean’s personal shit was beyond him—but he was thankful for it. And he’d continue to withhold that burden from his brother for as long as he could. This hell business? It was his alone to bear. Sammy needed no part in his suffering, and Dean doubted his brother could do much about it, anyway.

Man, the younger Winchester could do no wrong. It almost sickened Dean to know that they shared the same blood. He supposed it created a balance in nature, like how a coin had two sides—one lucky, and the other anything but. It wasn’t hard to know which side was his. Wasn’t much fair, but which aspect of his life had ever been? No matter. For Sammy, he’d keep on flippin’ that damn weighted coin if it meant that he could keep his brother safe.

Dean shifted atop the uncomfortable bar seat and sniffed away his restless thoughts, bringing the thawed beer to his lips. His nose dipped into the glass as he downed an eager gulp, the lukewarm beverage engulfing his tongue with a warmth he would’ve rather claimed from a skimpy barmaid. But alas, he’d made himself the promise to keep any and all contestants from playing this whirlwind of a game that was anything remotely related to his life.

Was this how celibate priests felt? ‘Cause man, it sucked. Not that they’d know the feeling of that, either.

He lowered the partially emptied drink back onto the bar top with a bitter scoff, eyes downturned to where he twirled the glass base within the ring of moisture it had bled onto the wood.

“Something funny, or have you just finally gone insane? Called it, by the way.”

Now that was the last voice Dean had expected to hear tonight. And in a bar, of all places—somewhere your holier than thou self had once sworn to never set food in outside of hunts. Granted, you were probably just being dramatic, but the thought still amused him.

He needn’t turn much to witness your figure. You slunk into perfect view as you took up a seat beside him. “Fancy seein’ you here,” he greeted through a lazy half-smirk, lifting his glass in a one-sided cheer.

You shot his drink a pitiful glance before returning his curious stare with an amused smile. “And I’m sure the bar hates to see you coming,” you retorted lightly, averting your gaze as you lifted your hand to wave over the bartender. “Whiskey, neat, thank you,” you said sweetly once the man had approached.

Dean risked a quick sweep of your figure—adorned with a dress so simple and casual, it shouldn’t have beckoned for his attention the way that it did. But honestly, this was one of very few times he’d seen you in anything other than your hunting or roleplay attire. And to be a little more honest, it was a view he could get used to watching.

Your head swivelled to face him for a brief second, which was enough to pluck his eyes away from what could be considered leering, if he’d made a point to stare any longer. And he was oddly tempted. But you quickly turned to face the bartender once more, initiating friendly chatter while he poured your drink with an extra chirp to his tone. You tended to have that effect on people, making bonds both meaningful and meaningless wherever you trod. Shit, look at the way you’d so easily strolled into both Sammy and his life. He wasn’t one to let strangers linger around, but for you, he’d made some sort of exception.

Dean lowered his head to study his glass once more. It was a view he’d long since grown tired of, but it was for the best. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that, anyway. You were Sammy’s friend first, and with that connection came the unspoken obligation of keeping his destructive hands off of you.

Sam had met you all the way back college. You weren’t the brand of friendship Dean would’ve expected his former anti-hunting brother to delve into—being a hunter and all—but that fact had only been disclosed after an unfortunate day of you being caught in the crossfire of one of their cases. It was a day Dean had thought you done for, for sure, but then you’d gone and surprised the both of them with your hunter’s wit, immobilising the threat like it’d been nothing of a challenge.

Dean would never admit it to your face, but you were a whole lot more knowledgeable than himself and Sam combined—and that’s considering that his brother is a colossal nerd before anything else. Since then, you’d stuck around, always helping Sammy with the nit-picky bookworm bullshit that Dean had never had much desire to do. He’d thank God himself for the lucky find that was you, if the big man in the sky really existed to begin with. Even after having met the angels, who were by no means impressive (save the girth of their dick nature), he couldn’t be convinced that there was a God who’d sent them here.

His attention strayed back to you as you reached across the bar top with a cash tip in clutch, which the bartender drank in with slightly flustered eyes before refusing it politely. Dean found himself huffing softly at the sight of it—not long after he’d come in, he’d seen that same bartender lay a fit on one of the occupants who’d refused him a tip after wrapping up the bill. He could’ve guessed that the demanding air you brought to the place had something to do with it. You didn’t mean to do it—demand things your way—it was just a string of events that always managed to fall into place whenever you showed up.

It was a quiet allure you’d always had to you. Dean could call you a good-luck charm for it. It made him want to hold onto you, just a little tighter, but he’d be selfish to do it. And whatever found it’s way into his grasp always seemed to shatter.

You reached for your glass almost shyly, as though you felt some slither of guilt for not being able to compensate the bartender’s effort, before turning to face Dean more directly. You tilted your head in the slightest manner, free hand brought up to cradle your cheek in poise as you gazed at him. “What did you mean by that, anyway?”

He frowned lightly. “What did I mean by what?”

“Fancy seein’ you here,” you mocked in a tone far too deep. A shameless grin spread your lips before you lifted your glass to take a sip—your eyes holding a glint he couldn’t quite decipher. And he didn’t try to linger on your stare for long enough to find out. There was some pull to it—like a getting caught in the sea’s rip current, and it made him feel something he couldn’t quite place. Or wouldn’t place, for the sake of keeping things unattached.

He glanced off to the side with a simple shrug. “Nah, I mean, you’re always off chasin’ some fairytale with Sammy. Just figured the two o’ya woulda found a fresh tail to nip by now,” he said nonchalantly, glass brought to his lips as he took a tense swig that finally emptied his glass.

“Well, yeah, but it’s after hours now. And I need a break, just like you,” you laughed. “Besides, I think you of all people could take the biggest break from chasing anything for the time being—which I’m glad to see you doing, by the way.”

He offered a simple nod of acknowledgment before lowering his glass and swirling the beer around his tongue, racking his tired brain for the next thing to say. It irked him a bit. Part of his charm was that chatting it up with the ladies always came easy. Who the hell would be be without it? But something about tonight—about you—had him feeling like a gawking numb-nut with a desperate need for a wingman.

He swallowed his sip and cleared his throat somewhat self-consciously, finally mustering up the courage to face you again. You had your fingers wrapped around your glass now, your eyes narrowed in eager focus and the corners of your lips slightly upturned—all while you sat waiting for him in patient silence. A silence that had no reason to make him feel. . . anxious, but it did. Were you doing it on purpose? Did you even know what you were doing?

Get it together, man, you’re blowin’ it, he said silently. You always do. Where do you think this’ll go? Nowhere. It’ll all crash and burn. Burn. Burn, the voices taunted. They’d become far too comfortable in his head, and now they had no shame popping up during his any and every conversation. Whenever the hell they pleased.

Mouthy bastards.

He ignored their jeering and settled for poking at the past, hoping it would invite you to carry the conversation he was so clearly dropping. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to remember you sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout how bars are home to sad men and madly horny men. So, that begs my earlier surprise that the Judgemental Judy herself showed up at the weepin’ whorehouse,” he said with a light chuckle.

You seemed more than happy to perk up at his teasing, a sight that made him ease off the clutch on his glass. “Well, maybe—just maybe, I have the guilty pleasure of making fun of sad sobs like you afterhours. I mean, the job gets so dull sometimes, you’ll forgive a girl for having a stupidly fun hobby.”

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. “You callin’ me a loser?” He asked through a grin.

Your shoulders lifted in the most dramatised shrug you could’ve possibly mustered. “Dunno, Dean,” you sighed. “Are you?”

He shook his head through a weak grin—not as a response to your question, but at the way you always found it in yourself to tease him with thinly veiled insults. He could’ve gotten mad over it, but it had become something like a tradition between the two of you—the very soul of your friendship. Now, he’d let you compare him to every depicted loser in the literature of insults if it could have you both sharing a hearty laugh by the end of it. If it would buy him a second longer of your presence.

You can’t have her. Not yours. She’ll break if you touch her, the voices pressed on. He never could place any of them—not to a face, not even to a name. But he must’ve known them, must’ve met them face to face when they’d been strung up for a beating by a weapon of his choice. The voices were right, too. Dean could tell himself he was a blacksmith, that he’d have the power to handle you in a way that would only make you malleable without breaking. But at the end of the day, he always managed a slip up. He knew he’d swing a little too hard, or bend you a little too far, perhaps even just hold you with a little too much force.

He’d break you the way he’d broken everything else. The way he’d broken himself.

“Are you okay?” Your slightly concerned voice broke into the chasm of his torment, causing him to raise his brows with a growing awareness.

“Yeah, no, I’m all right,” he attempted to say casually, coaxing forward a smile to reinforce his statement. But you didn’t look convinced—and why would you be? You knew him better than that. If anything, you might’ve been the one person who knew him better than Sammy. Not because he’d necessarily allowed it, but because you were scarily observant. He didn’t like how vulnerable that made him feel, but he couldn’t deny the facts, either. And he’d rather be faced with the hard truths than entertain myths forged for his own comfort.

“Come on,” you sighed all-knowingly before your leg crossed over the other, your whiskey pushed aside as you leaned yourself in a little closer to him. “What’s wrong, Dean?” He held his breath at the sudden closeness, but he wasn’t fast enough to miss the sweet caress of your perfume. It wafted beneath his nose like a taunt, and it fuelled the voices in his head even further.

Run away now, Dean. Save her. You’re doomed. Don’t doom her to the same fate. Don’t be selfish. Those words bit at his chest. Shut the hell up, he seethed silently, but they’d never listened before, and they wouldn’t listen now. You can’t shut out the truth, one sniped back.

He turned his head to the side. “Nothin’s wrong. Been a long day, that’s all. Sammy’s been wearin’ me down with all the hell crap. I just need a damn break.”

“I think that’s what you call brotherly concern,” you said, inching forward in your seat so that you nudged at the corner of his vision. “Is it so bad having somebody check up on you from time to time? Can’t do everything on your own, Dean, even if you like to think so.”

Dean released his glass and pushed it away from him, wringing his fingers out before he began to play with his ring. How could he tell you—tell anybody that this was something he could only do on his own? There wasn’t a single thing you or Sammy could do. It wasn’t the sort of thing that the books you skimmed through for hunts had an answer to. Traumatised man struggles to confront his tainted past. Now that’s a book that might’ve come in handy. But he wasn’t about to take a stroll through the local library’s self-help section, and reading it would only feel slightly validating if it’d been assigned by somebody with the degree to back the premise.

Besides, even if he’d been willing to talk to somebody who could help him, he’d surely be given a one-way ticket to the looney bin after the first session. Which wacko got to spew tales about the voices in their head without waking up between four padded walls the next day?

Dean cleared his throat dismissively. “Hey, uh, how’d you get here, anyway? Sammy drop you off?” He asked, eyes still glued to his fiddling fingers before he lifted his head to try and scout out the bartender. He could use another drink to drown the nerves he felt lingering within, and hopefully also drown out the voices while he was at it. You know, kill two birds with one stone and all that.

“Took a cab,” you answered hastily—a clear indication that you had no intention of entertaining his bullshit small talk. “I notice things, you know?” You added more earnestly, something that told him he wasn’t getting out of this one so easily.

Oh, trust me, I know, he remarked silently. He could’ve said the same about himself, especially when it came to you.

For instance, he noticed the way you’d never been a big drinker—how you’d only order something whenever he did. Obligatory pressure? Maybe, but he also noticed the way you always ordered the same whiskey. It was a whiskey he’d chosen for you the first time you’d gone to a bar together, and it was the same one you currently nurtured so gently between your fingers.

He noticed that you tended to care from a distance that didn’t feel suffocating, like making him that piping hot cup of coffee in the mornings he’d be too tired to pluck himself from the sheets, or all the times he’d gone days without eating and then woke up to a breakfast you’d prepped and plated at his bedside table. Hell, even all the times he’d left the motel in a scramble and forgotten essential equipment or some personal belonging, and you’d been right by his side, calm as a cucumber while you procured the items from your backpack.

Even now, you’d come all the way out here to keep him the company he’d never asked for, but that you must’ve known he needed. It was slightly more transparent than the rest of your previous acts of care, but he didn’t mind it, especially because you never tended to hassle him about his problems the way Sammy did. Up until now, at least. It was the little things like that that defined you in his eyes, things he’d come to admire about you.

Honestly, when it came to you, Dean couldn’t do anything but notice. You gave him the sort of impression that there was nothing you couldn’t try and fix. But she can’t fix you, a voice barked at him. You can’t be fixed.

Oh, piss off, you ass-probing sons o’ bitches, he spat internally. I’m not tryna get fixed. He wasn’t naive.

He shifted slightly in his seat as he grew more desperate for a numbing release, his eyes searching the bar frantically. But the bartender seemed to have disappeared entirely, and he gave a barely audible huff at tonight’s rigged luck. There goes the fuckin’ rescue. If he had to endure whatever mushy heart-to-heart was about to come next, he’d rather have done with some more alcohol to cull the consequences.

Almost as though you’d read his mind, the glass you’d been savouring was pushed in his direction. He glanced at you with slightly widened eyes, then gave a tiny dip of his chin.

“Thanks, but I prefer mine on the rocks,” he said thickly. Nothin’ like an icy gulp to remind me where the hell I am. That’s right, Hell. You’ll be back there in no time.

“Oh, I know, but if we’re gonna have this conversation—and we both know we will, you’re gonna need something stronger.” You nudged your glass another inch in his direction, modelling a clear-cut expression that told him not to argue any further. “Take it. This one’s on me,” you added with a cheeky smile. It was on you, only, it hadn’t cost you a dime.

Dean watched you for a few seconds longer, his tongue poking through to drag along his lower lip in silent debate. She’s not going to stop. She’s going to find out who you are. She’ll leave you. Just like everybody else. You’ll be alone. All alone. Alone. Again.

Neither of you moved to claim the drink—you out of protest, and him out of something far darker. All you did was cross your arms onto the countertop as you shared his silence, watching him through those calculating eyes of yours that made him feel a little too seen. Just what was going on inside of your head?

“All right,” he relented, slowly reaching across to clutch the glass. He brought it toward himself before lifting it to you in good gesture. “Cheers,” he said, then with a pause, his head tilted in silent consideration. “Again,” he added wryly.

You gave a tiny smile of victory, and the sight made his heart skip a beat. He immediately dropped his attention to the drink, where he brought it in for an eager drain. But his hand hesitated midway when he spotted the evidence of where your lips had settled for its first sip—the coloured print of your kiss overlapping the rim he’d planned to taste just seconds before.

“What, a little lipstick scare you?” He glanced up in time to see your eyes lifting from the same print on the glass rim, only to fix him with a slightly daring grin.

“Nah,” he answered almost too eagerly. He could’ve cursed himself for acting like a rattled school boy. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long, hearty gulp of the whiskey. It seared every inch of his insides for the entire trip down to his stomach, but the burn was something different and oddly welcoming. With a smack of his lips and a sigh of relief, he set the remainder of the drink down and flashed you a content smile.

Suddenly, you were leaning toward him, your hand reaching for his face. The sight made his heart race, and all he could do was lean back an inch in his seat, as though you had a case of cooties he was trying to avoid. “Hey, uh—woah,” he laughed nervously, and then he didn’t make any sound at all. Your thumb was pressed against his lips, but it didn’t hover for long before it did a brisk swipe and your arm retreated back to your side.

“Lipstick smudge,” you told him innocently, but he caught that delighted look on your face, and he knew then that you were perfectly aware of the effect you seemed to have over him.

Dean’s head buckled to conceal the heat in his cheeks—hoping that it hadn’t reached your attention the way everything you did reached his. “Yeah, well, at least buy a guy a drink first,” he chuckled hoarsely.

“Technically, I already did.”

He gave a series of minuscule nods that depicted his defeat. “Touché.” Technically, you hadn’t bought anything—you’d gotten a freebie. But he supposed it was the sentiment that counted.

“Anyways, as I was saying,” you continued your earlier agenda. “I notice things, Dean.”

She’s going to find out exactly who you are.

“Oh, yeah?” He muttered half-heartedly, the heat in his cheeks vanishing only to be replaced by a feeling of dread. His chin perked up when he caught sight of the bartender creeping into the corner of his eye. There you are, ya prick. He lifted his hand to wave the man over, before he finally turned to face you. “Like what?”

He knew exactly what, and so did you. Where to begin was the real question.

Luckily, the bartender appeared just in time to offer a preparatory interlude, which he gratefully seized at the throat. Turning to the man, he leaned onto the counter. “Hey, man, could you fix the gal over here with a. . .” He trailed off with a questioning glance in your direction.

“I’m good, thanks,” you refused politely, but Dean could make out a hint of impatience peering through.

He cocked his head slightly. “Suit y’self,” he murmured, then faced the bartender again to order himself another round to down after he finished the whiskey—drown your sorrows, or whatever it is they say. But your hand reached into his space with far more sense than him, silencing his impulse before his lips could even split to give the order.

“He’s good, too,” you told the drinks master, and the man glanced between the both of you before settling on you with a knowing smile and taking his leave.

Dean turned to you with a slight pout and a ruffled frown. “Man, seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” you retorted bluntly, hand retracting back into your own vicinity. “I’m not carrying your drunk ass out of here. And neither is Sam,” you added when Dean attempted to argue his brother onto his case.

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he mumbled, reaching for the singular, remaining drink he was apparently being limited to for the rest of tonight. But he didn’t take another sip just yet. Instead, he used the glass as more of a coping device, his fingers wrung tightly around its fragile body. And he couldn’t look at you while he waited for you to say whatever it is you had to say; he wasn’t strong enough to confront that particular Pandora’s box head on.

“You haven’t been okay for a while now,” you began. His teeth reached to bite the already-raw skin of his cheek. “And I know that it’s because of. . . you know—” he did, “—the things you’ve been through during your time in Hell. I mean, I can’t imag—”

Dean already knew the ending of that sentence before you finished it, and all the spite he’d garnered within drove him to face you with unintentional hostility. “No, you can’t,” he snapped gruffly, but he came to regret it shortly after seeing the hurt creep into your expression. With a sigh, he turned away from your crippling stare, his head shaking lightly in defeat. “This is why I don’t wanna talk about it. . . you and Sammy, you can’t understand what I’ve been through down there—what I had to do down there.” Go on, tell her. Tell her about the monsters in hell. Tell her about the biggest monster of them all.

“You still need to talk about it, Dean,” you urged gently. He noted how soft your tone was, almost as though you were afraid to push him too hard, whether it be with your choice of words, or with a single, harsh pitch in your voice. “If not to me, then to Sam, at least. I mean, he’s your brother, I’m sure he understands most things that other people wouldn’t.”

“Nah. . .” Dean murmured, his voice trailing off as he picked at his battered brain. He brought the whiskey to his lips and took a sip, savouring the burn in his chest. He hovered the glass in the air. “Sammy. . . he can’t help me with this. He shouldn’t have to, anyway. I’m the big bro, I gotta keep my head on for ‘im, y’know?” He glanced at you finally, and he didn’t realise how shattered he must’ve looked until he saw heartbreak soften your eyes.

His attention flickered down to where your crossed arms faltered, your hand briefly reaching forward as though you’d wanted to offer some slither of physical reassurance, but something else had kept you from engaging. He wished it hadn’t.

“Well,” you murmured, that same hand rubbing tender patterns along your forearm. “You don’t have to keep your head on for me.” Dean glanced up at you in surprise. “You’d be stupid to try, anyway. You’re not fooling me, Dean.” You gave a light laugh of defeat. “You’re not even fooling Sam. But the difference is that you don’t have to share that burden with him if you don’t want to. . . but you can share it with me.”

Could he, really? He couldn’t help but feel as though once he did open up to you, you’d realise the true magnitude of his shit. Only then, you wouldn’t be able to back out. You were too kind for that sort of rejection. But you’d both become miserable, and he didn’t think he could do that to you of all people.

With a slight jerk of his chin, he said, “‘fraid I can’t,” and gulped down the last of his drink to flush away the guilt of the mere sound. He hissed through gritted teeth as he placed the glass down with a bang, something that caused a few loiterers to glance his way, but he ignored them as surely as he’d been doing this entire night. “We should get back to the Motel. Bet Sammy’s startin’ to wonder if he should give me a call and chew me out over missin’ your curfew.”

“Dean—” you started, but he stopped listening.

He reached into his jacket pocket and plucked out his wallet, fingers prying the worn leather to slip out a hefty note. He folded and plopped it onto the countertop, his chin dipping in a brief thanks to the bartender who’d begun to saunter over and claim the bill. “Thanks, man,” he murmured, rising from his seat as he buried his wallet once more.

When he did finally make eye contact with you again, you had this sullen look to your features, but he tried not to show the way it made him feel. Feeling guilty? Like a douche? A prick undeserving of her time? After she came out all this way to speak to you. Tsk, the voices sneered.

Piss right off to hell. You first.

“Come on.” Dean jerked his chin at you, averting his gaze almost immediately when he saw your eyes narrow. He half expected you to start arguing, or to continue sitting there in a determined protest, but much to his relief, you rose up before him in a nerve-wrecking silence.

He glanced back at you, noting the light shake of your head before you let slip a hopeless scoff. Before he had a chance to prompt you further, you pivoted on your heels and whipped off into the busy bodies suffocating the bar. Behind you, your perfume lingered like a tantalising trail of candy, one that he knew he’d have no return from if he followed. But he did, anyway—the same way Hansel did Gretel because something about you had always felt like the home he’d never had. Even if he might burn it all down eventually.

He kept you in his sight all the way until the bar’s entrance, where you both eventually slipped out into the cool, unwelcoming air of the night. Dean drew up beside your hovering figure, his hand brought up to cradle your back and guide you to where he’d parked the Impala. He tried to catch your eye to ask whether you’d like his jacket because he felt your faint trembling beneath his hand, but you seemed to stop noticing he existed. Maybe that was for the best.

When you reached the passenger’s side of the car, Dean released you to reach for the handle. It clicked open, and he widened the door with an usher for you to climb inside. But all you did was stand there, tussles of your hair carried in hypnotising whisks by the night’s nipping breeze. He caught the scent of your shampoo, the same one he often found himself breathing in too deeply whenever he’d man the shower after you. And he could still remember it’s name—some limited edition crap he’d forced himself to memorise so that he could find another bottle like it and gift it to you on your next birthday. You’d been complaining for a good month that your current one was running dry.

He didn’t much like the idea of gift-giving, it wasn’t exactly his forte. But he knew the way you and Sammy both lit up at the mere thought of it. Besides, he’d be rude not to return the favour after having received gifts for his birthday from the both of you. Who are you fooling, boy? The best gift you could give her is to get out of her life. Don’t bother playing pretend with anything else.

You finally turned to face him, which instantly halted any and all thoughts he’d slowly been drowning in. There was some new resolve furnishing your features—brows furrowed, lips slightly parted and nostrils flaring with the weight of your own thoughts. But before Dean could ask the first thing about it, your hands came to wrap around his jaw, your lips pressing against his in a firm kiss.

Your lips were so warm against his, so soft that he could’ve fallen deeper into their padding. And he wanted to, so desperate for their welcome that he had to bring his hands up in a gentle bracket of your neck to keep himself from falling prey to his deepest desires. He pulled his lips from yours almost regretfully, keenly aware of your lingering warmth. There was so much emotion brimming in your eyes as you gazed up at him, but he saw uncertainty glare the loudest. He wished he could’ve said something—done something to displace it, but he had to remember where his priorities lay. In keeping you safe. Away from everything that was him.

“We can’t,” he murmured softly.

“Why not, Dean?” You answered with equal volume. He felt your thumb stroke across his stubble.

His lower lip fell loose with a heavy sigh, his head buckling in your hold. “We just can’t,” he repeated.

He waited for a reply, for any sound that echoed your frustrated with him, but you said nothing as your hands fell away from his jaw. He was forced to release his hold on you when you backed away from him and ducked into the salvation of the car’s privacy, his hands collapsing to his side in regret. He lifted his head to the sky with a brief breath of strength before he reached to shut the Impala’s door and tensely made his way around the fore. When he slipped into the driver’s seat, you’d already taken to the view of your window, hand cupping your cheek as you stared at anything that wasn’t Dean.

Fair enough.

He got Baby up and running, carefully picking his way out of the bar’s crowded lot before they hit the road winding toward their motel. The drive’s scenery was quiet, a stark contrast to the earlier atmosphere, and it made the air between yourself and Dean a whole lot tenser. There weren’t many cars, or people, found wandering by at any point of the trip, so it truly felt like the two of you had been locked alone in a room to confront the unspoken elephant. But he wasn’t so eager to pick at that fresh scab. Besides, what else more did he have to say that wouldn’t end up hurting you?

It felt like a lifetime had passed when he pulled up at the motel, the lot desolate save another car somewhere down the line. You finally shifted from your position of gazing out the window, but it wasn’t to look at him. It wasn’t even to reach for the handle that’d free you from this suffocating place beside him. Instead, your head was turned forward as you gazed through the windscreen.

“You’re one stubborn shit, you know that?” You said suddenly.

Dean followed your lead and decided to focus on the bug stain streaking the windshield just above the view of his wheel. “Yeah,” he scoffed knowingly, his fingers restlessly tapping the wheel’s rim.

“You’re just so determined to let yourself suffer alone—as if it makes you righteous in sparing us the hurt. But in reality, we’re already suffering. I mean, we’ve all got our own shit going on, right? The only thing making it worse is that somebody we care about is going through something unimaginable, but we don’t know how the hell to help him because he just won’t talk about it. Because he’s scared about—I don’t know—making us accomplices to his problems, I guess.”

Dean’s head buckled to the view of his lap as he listened to you talk, gripping the wheel’s rim a little tighter as he strangled the emotion threatening to take ahold of him. He heard you shift in your seat, noting as your knees turned toward him for a more direct confrontation. He didn’t think he could endure your frustration for any longer without finally cracking, and that scared him.

“When will you stop being so selfless, Dean?”

He allowed that question to linger in the air. Him, selfless? He wasn’t sure he’d call it that. To tell the truth, though, keeping his mouth shut had slowly been wearing him down. And it was almost as though walling off both you and Sammy had allowed the voices in his head to get as bad as they did. He knew all of this, but still he couldn’t find it in himself to open up. He’d never been good with rationalising his emotions, or with asking for help to do so. After all, growing up, he’d had nobody to ask. So he’d done the only thing he knew how to—suck it up and act the steadfast parent so that he could take care of Sammy. And ever since, he’d never quite learnt how to step out of that role, or how to take care of himself.

“I guess I’m just not ready to talk about it, yet,” Dean admitted in an unsteady murmur. His lower lip began to quiver, and he hated the way no amount of clenching his jaw seemed to quell it.

The hand he’d hovered on the wheel moved hastily to wipe the moisture he felt brimming on the cusp of his eyes, and he swallowed hard to fight his urge to flee the car. There was a loud silence from your side that made his ears ring; he wished you would say something—anything—before his voices did.

“I get that,” you said eventually. It made him release a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Your hand came fourth to rest on his shoulder, which made him drew a sharp, shuddering breath, despite your warmth seeping through his layers in a way that should’ve soothed him entirely.

“I just need you to know that you don’t have to do everything on your own,” you continued. “It gets exhausting. Trust me, I’ve been on my own for practically my entire life before I met you and Sam.” You paused when Dean turned to face you. “You wanna know something? Humans weren’t made to be alone—to do things alone. We’ve never been strong enough. That comes back to bite some people in the ass, but I’d say for people like us, it’s a blessing. So count them, Dean.”

And finally, as Dean sat stewing in his vulnerability, held hostage under your intense stare, he understood what glint had been in your eye all along. He couldn’t look away from it anymore. As if you seemed to witness his change in demeanour, the hand on his shoulder began to trail down the sleeve of his jacket in a suggestive caress. It set a fire to his chest, one that made him breath a little deeper for the air you seemed to be stealing from his lungs.

“Listen. . . you’re Sammy’s friend,” he pushed out weakly, an attempt to reason against his pressing urges. He hoped that by saying it aloud, he’d be able to silence the part of him that craved the pursuit of you. But for once, amongst the many voices in his head, he could hear his own—loud and clear in it’s true hopes that you’d be braver than he felt and make nothing of his poor argument. That you’d be brave enough to give him the permission he’d been withholding from himself.

You gave him this subtle squint—he caught it briefly in the thinning of your lashes. And then there was the slight hitch in the corner of your lips. The sight made his heart flutter up an inch. For all the voices in his head, he wished he could hear yours right now. Did you want this as much as he did?

Eventually, he caught you leaning closer to his yearning self. “So?” You murmured, the challenge accentuated by the purse in your lips. “I’m my own person before I’m Sam’s friend. I think I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions and dealing with the consequences that come after.”

Dean’s lower lip sank open at that, his brows quirking on anticipation. “I can’t promise you that. . . this, whatever it is, will be an easy ride,” he said. That I’ll be easy to love, he added silently.

You fixed him a long stare, your lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “I told you, Dean, this one’s on me,” you murmured.

This time, he knew that you weren’t alluding to the drink.

You’ll regret this, the voices barked. That’s my own damn decision.

Slowly, he began to lean in toward you, holding your stare and feeling further encouraged by the eager glint that seemed to grow in their breath-taking depths. The voices in his head blared a united jest. She doesn’t want you, she only pities you. You’re going to ruin her, just like you ruin everything else. You think Sammy’s going to forgive you when you break his closest friend? Traitor. Some big bro you are. You’ve always been selfish. He pushed back a mental answer. Shut. It. They didn’t listen.

He felt his heart begin to thud a little harder at his chest, but he gave a hefty swallow to dampen the feeling, and before it had a chance to return reinforced, he pushed his lips to yours.

Silence.

For the first time in what felt like ages, there was silence. Blissful, unequivocal silence. As if your touch was the antidote he’d needed all along to quench the fire hell had set alight to his brain. As if you’d been the missing incantation he’d needed to chant to keep all his demons at bay. And it made him greedy—this taste of peace you seemed to offer him. So he claimed more of it, the kiss deepening as he brought up his hands to cradle both delicate curves of your jaw. In turn, your hands flew up to bracket his neck, before drawing sensual lines all the way to his nape. Your touch was as gentle as he’d imagined, and as kind as he knew you to be, and he craved more of it. More of you. All of you.

Goddammit, he shouldn’t, but he did. He was only human, after all—even if he was all the worst parts of one.

He pulled away briefly to take the view of you in, lips parted in a slight pant. You mirrored him well, the gentle glare of the lamppost light reflected across your slicked lips. The sight made him burn with a more feral desire. He just had to have you. He was far beyond fending off his selfish desires now.

“Dean?” You called softly, an unsure twinge to your tone. You must’ve thought that he’d begun having doubts about pursuing this because there was a sudden, anxious furrow to your brows. But your hands didn’t falter from his neck, and he sure as hell wasn’t letting you go, either.

“C’mere,” he breathed softly, releasing your jaw only to slide his hands down your waist and to your hips, where he settled a firm grip to encourage you onto his lap. You followed his flow so naturally, hands sliding along the toned slope of his shoulders to grip there for support. You manoeuvred across the conjoined seat and reached the first leg over his lap, which Dean cupped at the thigh to steady you onto him. “Yeah, there ya go, you got it,” he murmured encouragingly, and your other leg followed shortly after until you comfortably straddled him.

You tilted your head up to drink in the impala’s ceiling, which could manage a graze of your nose if you lifted yourself any further. “Bit of a tight fit, isn’t it?” You giggled, glancing back down at Dean. He wanted to bottle the sound.

“Hey, she’ll do plenty fine,” he chuckled huskily, his hands comfortably settled at the meat of your hips. His thumbs rubbed tentative circles across your clothed skin, and he watched the way your lower lip drew into a subtle bite. It drove him nuts. He found himself leaning up to reach for your lips once more, but you held him back with an index finger to his chin.

“And just so we’re clear, I don’t have a curfew,” you said pointedly. Dean knew you were alluding to what he’d said back at the bar.

His lips split with a thankful grin. “Hallelujah to that,” he drawled huskily before lowering his lips to deliver a playful nibble to your finger. You let slip a giggle the most bubbly he’d ever heard before plucking your finger away and replacing it with your hungry lips.

His hands found their way below the hem of your dress, where he rubbed a firm line up your thighs. The touch coaxed a moan from your lips, poured into his mouth like the drizzle of honey—he couldn’t help but lap it up. Your hands wandered messy lines up and down the expanse of his neck, even going so far as to tousle his hair. The stimulation drove him crazy and sent a jolt down to his core. The longer your lips spent entangled, the more he felt his jean begin to strain beyond his control—but he didn’t have much adoration left to conceal. If anything, he wanted you to know exactly how you consumed every part of him.

He pulled away from the kiss, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wantin’ this,” he husked. “Wantin’ you.”

He could see the way the kiss had left you breathless, too, and strands of hair had fallen from the keep of your ears to messily frame your face. God, you looked beautiful. “Your damn fault for taking this long to pursue it. I’ve given all the signs, Dean Winchester, but you are as naive as boys come.”

He reached up to tuck the hair behind your ears, making a point to trail his fingers along the contour of your jaw as a knowing smirk felt out his lips. “Nah, just a good ol’ case of self-restraint,” he murmured.

“Oh because you know what’s so good for you?” You teased. Even under the dim lamplight, he could make out the rosy tint to your cheeks.

“I damn well do now.”

“Then show me.”

Dean grinned at your blatant challenge, hands moving to grab at your hips. He slowly began grounding you against his erection, which plucked from your lips a series of noises that began to grow more and more lewd with each passing second. He felt your nails digging into his shoulders, the padding of his jacket cushioning the sensation into gentle kneading. He couldn’t help but grunt with each blissful stroke against him—god, he could do this all night. It wasn’t long before you’d taken over the job entirely, your hips stirring back and fourth across his lap to a slow, tantalising rhythm that made his head loll back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his teeth grit as he endured the waves of pleasure riding its way through every nerve of his body. His fought the urge to flutter his eyes closed, to drown in the darkness of his euphoria because there was no way in hell he was missing a single detail about you—lower lip nibbled, fluttering lashes, heaving chest, a show all for him.

“You like that?” You asked thinly, your eyes fluttering closed as you threw your head back with a single, harsh push of your hips.

“Like it? You’re killin’ me over here,” he pushed out—a gruff, strained sound as he battled the heat accumulating in his groin. The demons, the angels, every asshole out to get him could go stuff it. At the end of the day, it was you that was going to be the sure death of him.

You let out an impish giggle, your hands releasing his shoulders to plough through your hair in the most seductive manner you could manage. It made him clench his jaw, made his grip on your hips a little firmer than before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he praised breathlessly, eyes fluttering through his lashes as he gazed up at you. You were mesmerising, in everything that you did. You didn’t ever have to be doing much for him to want to stare. Existing was enough. Doing more than existing was a bonus.

He saw the way you lit up at that compliment, and it made him want to shower you with many more like it. Hunting had its kicks, but fuck, this—you—he could find himself addicted. That should’ve made you dangerous, especially when you were all he needed to take to stifle the voices. But he couldn’t pull away from you now. He wouldn’t. In fact, it only made him want to hold onto you more fiercely.

Your hands reached back for the steering wheel as you sought out just the angle to intensify your movements, and that’s when you accidentally struck the hooter. The both of you jolted with the noise, which made your hands fly up to cup your mouth in both horror and amusement, your hips stilling against his lap.

Instinctively, both Dean and yourself turned to glance through the windscreen, zoning in on the door that lead up to the three bed motel you’d been renting for a good month or so. A few tense seconds passed, but the door never opened to reveal an inquisitive Sam, and you both let out with a breath of relief. You collapsed onto the crown of Dean’s head with a fit of laughter, practically hugging his head. He burrowed into your chest with his own chuckle as his hands dragged up your body to wrap around your waist in a hug.

“I’m thinkin’ maybe we should move this party to the backseat,” he murmured against you.

You pulled back to face him, hands entangling at the nape of his neck. “I think that’s for the best,” you giggled, leaning down to place a tender kiss on his lips. He loved how gentle your touch felt, like he was being admired more than desired—something to savour and not to lap up like a greedy, guilty cheat meal. It made him feel valued, and he’d take every damn second of this night to return the favour.

He received your kiss eagerly, eyes falling shut as he basked in your soothing warmth. He found himself breathing a little deeper, your scent streaming in to envelop him further in your essence—as if he craved to be remade in your image. Then, much to his disappointment, you pulled away and left his lips bare as you began to shift from his lap. He watched as you reached past his torso to bend yourself over the seat, and then with a few noises of effort here and there, you heaved yourself over—your flailing foot nearly striking his eye in the process.

“You good?” He called back, twisting in his spot to catch you sprawled on your back along the seat. Oh, you were comfortable, all right.

“Just get over here, Lover Boy,” you giggled, hands grabbing the empty air.

Dean chuckled and shifted onto his knees with a grunt, carefully reaching over the seats to place his hands on either side of your torso. He got the last of himself over so that he towered over your waiting figure, the necklace permanently wrung around his neck slipping his top to dangle toward you. Your eyes latched onto it curiously before you reached up to hold it between cautious fingers. He half expected you to ask about it, but instead, you released it and wrapped your hands around his neck, as if nothing other than him mattered in that moment.

Before he knew it, he was pulled down into a kiss, and he leaned down even further to get lost in the taste of you. His hands lowered along your body to find the hem of your dress, where they fastened around the material and began dragging it up and over the curves of your legs. When he’d gotten to your torso, he broke off the kiss to lift himself a fraction, your hands coming up to aid the removal of your dress. He slipped it over your head and tossed it onto the floor before moving to shed his own jacket and layered shirts. The clutter of your shoes falling to the floor sounded some ways behind him, and he took a moment to do the same, shrugging off his boots into the oblivion below.

He took a moment to glance you over, almost naked save the pretty set of lace underwear. He’d pictured this moment far too many times than he’d like to admit, and now he drank in your every curve, scar and blemish, and marvelled at the soft sheen of your skin to the point where he hoped he’d come to memorise you. Somewhere in the mix, he picked up the sweet tang of your lotion.

“God,” he pushed out absentmindedly, his hands moving to rub soft lines down your waist.

“A believer now, are we?” You poked, your back arching an inch off the seat as you bathed in his endearing touch.

Dean jerked his chin. “I mean, come on,” he grinned, doing another sweep of your body before he leaned down to litter soft kisses along your neck. Your head caved further into the seat, broadening the horizon for his appreciative lips to explore as they pleased—and they did.

He drew passionate lines all over the curve of your neck, even managing a sneaky trail up to your ears, where he nibbled lovingly at the lobe. You giggled, the sound pure music and bliss to his ears. He wandered all the way down to your collarbones, experimenting with light nibbles along the tender anatomy before he soothed it with a slow kiss. You let out a passionate moan that spurred him on, the strain in his jeans becoming far tighter than he could bear, but he couldn’t stop himself from exploring every inch of you just yet. He intended on pressing all of your buttons—desperate to know just how many sounds he could coax from you.

He dipped down to place a kiss on your breast, so perfectly hoisted by the bra he sought to slip from your body. He pulled back in a light pant, his hands coming up to fulfil his wishes. Thankfully, it was one of those that unhooked in the front. It sure as hell would save the extra effort. While he reached for the clip, your hands wandered up his muscled forearms, thumbs tracing over the veins of your choice. He stole a glance from you, noting how you seemed as enticed by him as he felt by you, before he turned his focus back to your bra with a sheepish grin on his lips.

“What’s got you more flustered than a frat boy with a serious crush?” You asked, your hands straying from his arms to trail down his toned abdomen.

Your touch stopped just shy of his navel, but the heat carried all the way to his groin. “Don’t you play games with me,” he warned through a smirk, the bra’s clip coming undone. Slowly, he parted the cupping, his breath usurped by the view of your spreading breasts. “Y’know what, play as many games as you’d like—but keep the damn view, will ya?” He chuckled, aiding your efforts to shimmy the bra straps from your shoulders.

Your hands hovered half-way over the hem of his pants, framing his gently carved v-lines in admiration. And then you began to undo the button of his jean, the zipper splitting downward in a slow and steady whir that hoisted his primal urges. You made a point to simultaneously tug at the hem of his underwear as you pulled down his jean, which he shifted to help aid the removal of. He felt mildly embarrassed at the way his manhood bowed with eager anticipation, but you drank in the view with flustered eyes, lips thinning with an exhilarated grin that told him you were marvelling in the spell you’d cast over him.

When you met his gaze again, there was this almost pleading look to your eyes. He answered your silent prayers by bowing down to place tender, thorough kisses all around the curves of your breasts, even taking a moment to adorn your hardened buds with a hot swirl of his tongue and a gentle toying of his teeth. This action alone seemed to tug at your last thread until you’d unravelled into a mewling mess, slurring his name in a manner that made him never want to stop. His hands came up to squeeze your breasts a little harsher than he’d intended to, but you let out an approving groan that left his grip steadfast as he continued his toying.

The hands you’d settled into his hair was the last straw he needed to finally drag his attention lower, where he instilled sloppy, hasty kisses all along your stomach. He reached the hem of your delicate lace, hands gliding over the meat of your hips to hook his fingers under the waistband and yank it down your legs. You discarded the undies eagerly, and with his newfound access to your womanhood, he gave you a content smile before dipping between your thighs to drag his tongue through your slicked folds. He curled his arms around your propped thighs, his nose burying against your clit as he lapped up your core at slow and steady pace. He deliberately took his time to draw all manner of patterns along the tender skin, keenly listening for any hitch in your moans that indicated he’d found a sweet spot. The sound of your undoing? Now that was a voice he’d gladly allow to plague his mind—all day, all night.

He could tell by the progressive loudness of your moans and the more frantic jerking of your lower half that were close to your limits, so he intensified every flick and whisk of his tongue to help carry you to that point.

“Dean—stop,” you breathed out suddenly. Immediately, he withdrew from your proximity with a concerned glance in your direction.

“You all right?” He asked, releasing his grip on your thighs to rub calming circles along your sensitive skin. “If I pushed too far, I’m sor—” he attempted to apologise, but you were eager to cut him short.

“No, it’s not that!” You said quickly, propping yourself onto your elbows to take the view of him in better. “You’re doing amazing—you’re amazing,” you said through a soft smile, your cheeks blown red by a combination of your stimulation and your almost undoing. “But I don’t want to finish just yet. I want to feel you—all of you,” you explained.

Dean caught on quickly, his heart lurching a short distance. “Yeah—yeah, of course,” he murmured, inching his way back up toward you, where he leaned in to brush his nose against yours tenderly before he dipped to place his yearning kiss onto your lips.

“I want you so bad, Dean,” you murmured between kisses—a sweet, breathless sound that cooed into his ear.

“You have no fuckin’ idea how mutual the feeling is,” He breathed, answering your plea by reaching down to grab ahold of his manhood. He delivered a quick, preparatory pump along the length before he pressed it to your slicked folds and dragged it down to your entrance. You let out a sharp moan at that, the kiss temporarily seizing.

Slowly, he began to insert himself into your warmth. You drank him in so eagerly that he couldn’t stop a strained moan from slipping his lips.

“Oh, man,” he mumbled huskily, head collapsing just past yours as he drove himself into the first pump—so controlled and calculated as though he were afraid to hurt you. You seemed appreciative of his pace, your hands coming up to wrap around the toned contours of his back. “You still good?” He checked in as his hips retracted for the second stroke, angling himself to achieve just the right curve that would boldly reach your sweet spot.

You mumbled a feeble mhm, your fingers burrowing little divots into the muscle of his back. That confirmation cemented him, and he took on a steady pace within you, one hand reaching down to grip your thigh in support. It wasn’t long before the impala began to sway under his growing pace, each powered thrust of his hips against yours providing all the momentum needed to rock the steadfast steel. The mingled tune of your moans and grunts filled the isolated air of the car, the windows tinted with a secretive sweat bled from your combined body heat. It carried on for a while, and he could only hope that nobody was around to witness it.

His high came on strong—and embarrassingly, a lot more quicker than yours. He’d blame it on his infatuation with you. That, and the fact that he’d practically cleansed his brain of the mere thought of you. It’d all been necessary to spare himself the torment of fawning over every aspect of your existence, but now that he was finally afforded the opportunity to truly taste you, could he have blamed himself for being greedy? Still, he throttled the urge to scatter his pleasure, straining and waiting as you reached your own breaking point. He knew you were near when he felt the twinge of your nails against his back, and he brought both arms up to straddle your head as he pressed a desperate kiss to your lips.

With a single, deep thrust of his hips, you both spluttered a weepy breath. The knot in his core dissipated into an elated, white haze that consumed his every sense. For a moment, all he could do was hover himself over you, his lips splayed against yours as he grunted into you. Your lips tangled in breathless bouts of air, occasionally snagging in a weak kiss.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed against your cheek, placing a kiss onto the flushed skin.

Your hands came up to cradle his face and push him just far enough to drink him in. “I adore you, Dean Winchester,” you whispered lovingly. “I always have.”

The way you gazed at him was enough to throb his debilitated heart, and suddenly he felt rejuvenated within—as though you were all the motivation he needed to keep on powering his way through this cruel experience he’d come to call surviving. You made him want to do more than survive. You made him want to live—if not for himself, then for you. You were the type of person he’d have fought himself free of hell to return back to. And now that he was back, one thing was for certain—he’d keep on fighting to ensure his place on this earth. To remain beside you.

Dean had never been too good with words out loud, so he gave you a soft smile that he hoped could convey a fraction of what he felt for you. He removed your hands from his jaw, crowning each with a kiss before he shifted your bodies into a comfortable spooning session. Your back curved into his chest, your lower half perfectly conforming to his as he held you against him like you’d slip away if he relented for even a second. And you laid like that until a gentle, shallow rhythm of breathing overtook you, sleep coming to claim you with a haste he envied. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slipped into dreamland as quickly as that—and when he did, his nightmares would turn up like an eager workaholic reporting for dawn duty.

Now, with you nestled between the arms that had come to memorise the shape of loneliness, he didn’t mind laying there in wake. He listened to the gentle whisper of your flaring nostrils, taking in a fraction of the peace etched across your partially concealed face. He was glad that somebody else could draw peace from him and claim it in the way that he’d never been able to claim for himself. He was glad that somebody was you.

It had always been you.

He’d been the biggest fool trying to convince himself otherwise.

──────────────────────

a/n: trying out a new format here bc the old one is exactly that. old. n e ways. first Dean fic—be kind to me!! :’) this was so daunting to write, but boy did I have my fun with it. i hope y’all enjoy this piece, i haven’t been able to get this sad sad man out of my mind. i just want to hold him close at all times. also i’m not responsible for any typos i’ve missed bc it’s currently 2 am and i’m scrambling to get this out. the drafts are sick of it.

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated! ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind

want to be apart of the taglist?

comment/message me if you’d like to be added to/removed from the taglist of any future dean winchester works!

other works — supernatural masterlist

[kuntprodukt]

I NEED YOU (I BREATHE YOU)

Next chap. |

Dante Sparda x reader | 18+ MDNI. SMUT, female reader, sugar baby&sugar mommy dynamics, age gap(reader is in her 20s), vaginal sex, unsafe sex, creampie, teasing, blowjob, nipple play, tits sucking, cowgirl position, light feminization.

Summary: Dante isn't the best in the financial field. Too many debts, every cent he gained at missions they slipped through his fingers simply trying to finally close those damn debts - so a good question emerged in his mind; can a man be a sugar baby? At his age? Turns out the only woman that wants him is younger than him.

notes: this is unplanned and a quick fic, wrote it without too much thought and i didnt even proofread it so if you see mistakes then you are wrong and ignore them, english isnt my first language anyway. reblogs, asks or comments and any kind of interractions are really appreciated!

Dante isn't the best in the financial field, doesn’t mean he is dumb - last time he opened a dictionary the definition of smart didn’t include the ability to manage one's money well. Too many debts, every cent he gained at missions they slipped through his fingers like sand by paying too much stuff and trying to finally close those damn debts - any good bank would tell him to fuck off and ban him from even thinking about setting the foot there. 

So a good question emerged in his mind; can a man be a sugar baby? At his age? Only sugar babies he heard of were young women in awful financial need or just with daddy issues. Jackpot! Hit the bullseye - he is both, with an additional bonus of mommy issues, if not worse. There shouldn't be a sex discrimination, men can work for those money not worse than women, surely there would be a woman of his age - in need of a good dick and waste her money. 

Turns out the only woman that wants him is younger than him. By 20 years. Where the fuck do you get money? Daddy’s money, probably. He wishes that's not true cause at his 43 the less drama from strangers the better it is. And he just wants to throw those debts in the bin finally. Perhaps there is some kind of sugar baby chain he isn't aware of? Patience and silence, Dante, money doesn't like shit talking - and you are too perfect for him, so fucking eager to feel his hands on your pretty body. This is weird, unusual even - companionship for such a pretty tight piece while you could find any other better man than whatever the mess he is.

And you like him too much for a sugar mommy. God, can he even call you like that? Mommy. Sugar. Sweet like one, but not a mom. Yet. His coat collection became richer than before, some stuff he'd never wear, but it is a nice thing to have - just to watch or give it to Nero, boy clearly doesn't believe Dante found someone finally. Maybe some devils were just too much into fashion. 

“Did you rob a bank? What the fuck, Dante?” Nero frowns at the sight of another new coat on Dante, leather one - not those used and already patched leather, like rings of cut tree showing their age. No-no, this one hugs his shoulders nicely and if he even bothered to button it then the curve of his waist would be hugged nicely. “Since when is there a big demand for you?”

“Or maybe someone learnt how to settle down“ Trish would poke at him, ambiguously raising her eyebrow. Damn her.

“Ehhh… who knows,” Dante shrugs. She eyes his face, probably already caught his uncertainty. Uncertain if he even should tell his sugar mommy to them - you. Young, god, they’d think he is a creep - like raunchy magazines weren't already enough. 

Too many doubts, Dante, one should be grateful for money in exchange his dick would get wet so easily, of course, little to complain. Rent gets paid with debts, other additional stuff is just a nice dessert.

Maybe Dante likes this too much than he is supposed to.

His heart melts everytime your head lays in his lap, while he is on the couch, doing jack shit - “watching” some crappy movies (no raunchy magazine with you, he isn't sure if you would have approved those) and drinking beer - not the cheapest, the best one. The curves of your hair in his laps, luring him to rest his hand on you, brush away the curls from your face to see your half lidded gaze settled on him and feel the warmth of your silk skin. Curling like a cat, trying to draw out of his warmth before returning it back by sucking him dry.

“What are you watching?” your voice pulls him out of the trance you've given him just with your presence. Somehow he doesn't even know himself, his eyes dart to the screen that has been illuminating your bodies for a good hour. A cheap movie with a bimbo with over exaggerated curves and some cliche muscular hero - it’d be a miracle if those actors didn't end up washed up after two years of their career. 

“Whatever on the TV” He shrugs, not wanting to admit he just put some crap. It is good food for your brains after a hard day. You hum mindlessly, as your fingers creep up under his shirt to feel his skin better. And he shivers, going straight to his cock with the image of you kissing his happy trail just to take his dick in your mouth. Sweet, better than magazines - they dont suck him off as you do, nor do they get wet his dick.

“Doesn't sound fun” Dante raises his eyebrow at your words, taking a quick sip of his beer.

“What’s fun for you?” His finger pokes on your forehead “I believe I’m fun enough” 

“Not shitty movie with bimbos and beer clearly” 

Dante stays silent, purses his lip thoughtfully,- more like a disapproval. He can't really voice it. But you are right. 

“Baby” your hand raises his shirt, his abs tense after getting exposed to the air and your gaze. Your fingers brush on the hard surface, squared shapes on his stomach are so pleasant to trace your finger tip on - lower and lower to his white happy trail like a sign guiding your eyes to the zipper of his jeans. Unzip me! Like a present.

“Mmm?” Baby… Baby, b-a-b-y… Baby, - god he likes this so much, how it rolls on your tongue like a candy melting slowly just to leave a cavity - the one he wouldn’t get rid off. His cock throbs beneath the fabric. 

“I have a present for yoouuu” And you have all his attention now, even more than before. He hopes it is something expensive or just cash - not that he doesn't like gifts, it’d be sad to sell them and unlikely he will anyway. 

You sit up, pulling out a long little dark object, he has seen it multiple times - lipstick, Trish uses identical one. It makes him feel weird. 

“What's that for?” Dante raises his eyebrow. Pop! It opens and slides out a sharp tip with the pretty cold red color. He isn't the expert here, but looks like a new buy - smells nice too. 

You don't answer. Your fingers grip his cheeks, squeezing them to purse his lips with a glee smile on your own. 

The curve of the lipstick presses on his lip, slowly sliding side to side and covering his slightly dry skin with a new color - your eyes lit up, like he has never seen before in you, getting off of the sight of lipstick on him and he can’t even say anything. Another pop! And something next to his eyes - trying not to blink too much, but he will be judged tonight cause it feels impossible. His eyelashes and eyes aren't used to the mascara. 

“You look gorgeous,” your eyes scan his face, finally finishing your job. “Maybe we should go to some places too..” You slip lower. “Some expensive restaurant,” On your knees in front of him now. “Maybe with a dress too, like a pretty girl.”

Dante’s eyes are set on you in between his spread legs, caressing his hardening cock under the jeans before they free it. Unzip, unbutton and tug on his boxers -  easy, simple. And he groans just from the anticipation. His cock bobs up to his hip, hard flesh with trimmed pubes - he isn’t a teenager to even care about his or someone’s body hair. And you don't seem to mind. Your gaze traces his cock, the red tip with an already formed bead of pre-cum on the slit, flinching under your gaze as a plea for your mouth to wrap and taste the light bitterness on your tongue. To trace his tip and underneath it with your tongue, slowly moving to the base and to feel the prominent vein of his cock pulse before cumming in your mouth.

Your palm curls on his cock, gripping it steady and Dante can see a new manicure - pretty, dark red with a sharp kitty-like shape slowly stroking his dick.

“Pretty nails..” He lets out and you sparkle up like a Christmas tree - a subtle detail can easily excite you, reminding him how young you are. Confirming his theory too - you may have daddy issues too.

Your lips press against his tip, slowly kissing around it. What a tease for him, your tongue peeks out to lick away precum his tip leaks before sinking your mouth on his cock. The warm and wet heat of your mouth envelops it, your tongue flicks along the shaft. Dante can feel himself getting harder and his hips buck back in response, letting quiet groans.

Briefly his tip brushes at the back of your throat, forcing another buck of his hips into your mouth before it pulls away from his cock. You cough slightly, having a hard time to take him entirely in your mouth - deepthroating isn't the born talent, more like an acquired skill. Dante pats your cheek with a cocky smirk.

“Don't bite off more than you can chew, doll” His hand creeps in your hair to push you up. Your lips are puffier than before, glistening with the saliva and the sight makes his cock throb painfully. His cock twitches in the air. 

 “Fuck, come on” Dante grunts, too impatient, pulling you up and his fingers dip in your plush thighs, the skin squeezes softly in between free space of them. “Your gorgeous girl needs to feel your pussy” He smirks, leaning back on the couch. “You wouldn’t deny me, right?”

You straddle him, your pussy hovers over his wet cock, as his arms snake around your waist - slowly pushing your hips lower: his tip nudges your hole, slipping inside and burying himself deep inside you. Warmer, wetter and so much better than your mouth, your walls stretch around him so right, gripping his hard skin tightly - surely you will feel every little curve of his cock inside you. Pressing and hitting your g-spot is so good too, like you were born to have him inside your pussy - or vice versa, he was born to be used by you. Your hips roll together with your body, it arches into him, his cock sinks deeper into your pussy and your clit grinds against his pubic bone - coaxing more moans out of you, as his arm slowly coils around your waist to pull you closer.

Your tits bounce so well in front of his face - in the sea of pleasure he leans in to bury his face in them. Slowly kissing and biting on the plush surface, coaxing more moans with a sweet perfect arch of your back. His hand creeps up to knead your boob, while sucking on the nipple of the other. Hard bud against his tongue, slowly sucking on it. Light bite, while his eyes are set on your expression twisted in pleasure. He could die here and now - but satisfied and fulfilled as a man. 

He can feel his balls tighten easily, slapping against your ass as you keep riding him. So close, you are too, after all his playing with your tits didnt go to waste. Your pussy clenches tighter his cock, signaling your own orgasm is approaching too. His hips bucked up to meet yours in a messy pace as everything became more and more overwhelming. With a final thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, giving last and soft kisses to your tits. Your body shudders eventually too, your walls spasm harder around him as the crushing wave of orgasm hits you, pleasant shockwaves dumb every bad thought in the head. His cock throbbed, finally spurting ropes of cum into you. You rest on him. Your heavy breathings feel  the room, no more flesh-hitting and wet sounds, just you and the forgotten movie rolling on the tv - some crap dialogues in the background you both don't care about.

Dante was last to get hold of himself, you leaning back brought him back to you. Your hair sticks to your skin, forming wavy forms and giving a much cuter look he has never seen you having before. Something is missing. 

“No kissing for your best girl?” Dante teases again, a toothy smile on his face flashed from sex and you notice his lipstick got smeared and messy without your ministrations. A sparkle of jealousy, or whatever it is. Not sure why and from where. Your hand runs through his white strands just to grip and crush your lips into his. Smearing even more the lipstick on his mouth, but this time tainting yours too with that pretty red. His mouth opens to deepen the kiss, tongue brushes at the seam of your lips just to end up denied and pulled away from you just to meet your own toothy grin dirtied with lipstick. 

Huh, seems like he ended up kissblocked. Not cockblocked, at this point uncertain what's better end for him.

[cheralith]

PLEASE MORE OF CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND KAISER 🙏🙏

childhood bestfriend!kaiser who, at age nine, manages to find a spare coin on the ground and decides, for the fun of it, to use it on a nearby capsule machine as he waits for you to finish up inside the convenience store. it contains mini capsules of what seems to be cheap jewelry, and though kaiser cannot be bothered to wear any himself, he decides for the fun of it to just give it a spin since the other machines don't seem worth his money.

he ends up with what looks like a cheap nickel ring with a plastic deep blue gem glued onto its little divot. it's... actually not bad for something so cheap, but it's still cheap enough to notice some flawed intricacies and some irregularities in its pattern surrounding the band of the ring. he attempts to try it on some of his fingers, but it refuses to budge past half of most of them.

you manage to finally finish up paying for your stuff at the register, meeting him outside where you find him squatting down in front of a couple of capsule machines arranging from some quick candy to disposable toys. he holds something shiny between his two fingers as he examines it closely, his concentration on the item making you giggle lightly. that's when he notices you and you ask him what he's holding as you shuffle up next to him.

"a ring," he states simply, letting you hold it between your fingers to let you analyze the toy. "i think it's a little small for me though."

you hum lightly before gently trying it on your left ring finger. to yours and kaiser's mild surprise, it fits quite snugly. "hey, look at that!"

you show off your hand to him, where the ocean blue gem glimmers along the silver band. kaiser stares at it for a minute, taking a liking to how well it goes together with your hand—like it's meant to be there.

he tucks his head away from you, the tips of his ears blushing a light pink. quietly, he mumbles, "... you can have it, then... if you want."

"really?!" you exclaim, clearly delighted. you grin widely, clenching and unclenching your fist when he nods shyly again in affirmation.

he watches you from the corner of his eye, witnessing you glimmer in admiration at the cheap ring, as if it was an actually well-crafted piece made with love and care and thought and not some mass-produced, cheap toy that would most likely break in a couple of days.

so it's surprising how long the little toy has lasted after all these years. there eventually came an age where it could no longer fit any of your fingers without it getting stuck, so you had opted for creating it into a necklace with a matching silver chain. when you had proudly showed off your creation to kaiser at age twelve, his lips purse in bashfulness fronted as confusion. he knew you had worn it for quite a while after he gave it to you, given how he always would steal a glance at your hand to see if you were still wearing it, but to see you go to a length to preserve such a small gift made kaiser feel like he was on top of the world.

you wore the simple necklace for a long time—essentially every day and never took it off unless you were showering or going to bed. even despite the strict "no jewelry" rule at your school, you always had tucked it inside your shirt in secret, feeling like you were carrying a piece of kaiser every where you went since you and him went to different schools (what institution he went to, you didn't know. every time you asked him what school to see if it sounded familiar, he'd just simply reply, "school.")

so when kaiser disappeared from your life for three years, after he had gotten arrested at thirteen for apparently robbing a store (you would shout at the others who rumored about the subject that he'd do no such thing), the piece of metal felt heavier around your neck at times. it felt sore at times, but you still insisted on wearing it every day in hopes that he'd still be somewhere nearby, waiting for you to hand him spare pieces of your dad's bread rolls behind his bakery.

you'd fiddle with it at times while waiting at his bus stop, while you waited on the swings at the nearby park, while you sat on the stairs of your father's bakery... just waiting in hopes of seeing a familiar blonde to hopefully appear before you. you don't know how much time you had wasted in the first year and a half attempting to continue a routine that you didn't know ended without your knowledge... just simply waiting and staring into the open distance while your fingers fiddled with the toy ring strung around your neck.

you stopped waiting for the figment of someone you used to know after the seventeenth month. winter was upon you now and you knew it was getting harder to withstand the chilled air as you waited, waited, and waited. as you swung lightly on the swings that you and kaiser used to eat too much candy with bought with your dad's spare cash, you eventually let the sugar dissolve on your tongue one last time before heading home as the snow began to fall.

you were eighteen, visiting home from the big city on a holiday weekend when you saw him for the first time in years. just shy of the end of your first semester at university, you saw a familiar head of blonde (with now blue tips) hair descending down to the shared tunnel of the subway, face just barely visible from the scarf he wore. you were on the opposite side and had just gotten off at the same platform, and the whiplash you had given yourself at the moment to double check if the person wrapped in a dark blue scarf was actually someone that had disappeared from your life years ago was truly there could've snapped your neck.

suitcase trailing behind you, you had forgotten all about your connecting train and swiftly trailed down the stairs in desperation to see a familiar face you yearned to see for the past few years. you probably looked like a psychopath, but you didn't care, not when you spotted the familiar choppy locks of white gold just a few meters away.

when you called out his name, you proved yourself right given how the figure in front of you freezes when you shout his last name.

kaiser remembers stiffening up at the sound of a melody all too familiar to him just before he transferred through the turnstile to the other station. he slowly turned around to see a face he had spent a good portion of the beginning of his life around, a face that unlike most people in his life, he didn't dread to see with a flow of contempt. but he still felt the apprehension fill his nerves, similar in the way that it did just before a big match.

and it felt nearly impossible to control such a feeling—especially when he spots the shrewd ring still hanging around your neck on a thin, silver chain, its dark plastic gem still glistening at him with a knowing wink in its glimmer.

a/n ; some more of childhood bestfriend!kaiser here, here, and here (yandere warning for the last one). comments and reblogs always noticed and endlessly appreciated :]

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

autism in china

if you been here for long enough you probably know that even me fucking explicitly naming country of origin & ethnicity instead of vague around something east asian, huge deal.

so.

as chinese person who born & part grew up in mainland china n been though HORRIFIC trauma from it... cannot talk about anything related to it.

but in mean time. there important things desperately wish non-chinese, or people who lived) in china in general (including diasporas), would know n understand.

because it been extra traumatizing & isolating n lonely, be only person in big metaphorical or literal room, who know these trauma exist, n horrific extent of it. some of which have live experience with. some of it looming threat for my future. some of it not my own experience but my friends (aka my community. my autistic n disabled community).

so, going share some stuff written by other chinese people in this post. that. oh gods. it so accurate it hurt.

there may be some parts not fully agree or would word different if am write. but. think overall message important enough.

especially if you non-chinese. hope you read through all of it (if accessible). even if it make you deeply uncomfortable. n then imagine autistic chinese people living in this reality. because many parts SHOULD make you deeply uncomfortable.

EDIT: image description link for those need ID or not have instagram

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fact is, most prevalent, majority—n by majority don’t mean 51% majority, but enough to feel like it hopelessly whole entire country—understanding of autism in china is that. there real autism (真自闭症) that rare n severe n hopeless n should die, n majority of cases fake autism (假自闭症) that can be cured / taken off hat 脱帽, that caused by environment like bad parenting, n you should be glad it fake, n kid n parent should then dedicate entire life to taking off that hat to finding cure, even if it mean , via old school gold standard (read: abuse) ABA. all professionals say it all professionals endorse it n who would question professionals? look this grande new intervention came from great United States Of America, that proof it top quality it works n am going charge ridiculous money for it. but why you saying USAmericans n “the west” saying [things that humanize autism], they wouldn’t know real struggle, their diagnostic criteria super wide it all fake, why would you listen to them, you traitor you boot licker. —but either way, both real n fake autism drain on public resources n should be kept away should be locked up in chains (no, literally. seen documentary where high support needs autistic get chain in closet for majority of day, “for his benefit.”), should never be born should all die. keep it away from my normal children my normal children should not have to share same space same classroom same world as it, its behaviors its symptoms its screams its existence rob teachers attention away from my normal children. they all should die n will proudly explicitly admit eugenics good.

(don’t actually believe this. but pretending write what have seen people talk about.)

-

n finally, post about general (visible) disability—because in my however many year grow up there, before (temporarily it seems) left, have never seen visibly disabled person in public. ever.

ever.

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n generally anything from this instagram account. need stop linking now or else link entire account.

.

so please. reblog this. share this. read this. don’t let me be only person bear this. because my god it breaking me

[thehumanwiki]

hi and welcome to

✨bullshit that has ACTUALLY happened somewhere in the Pokémon franchise✨

-a teenaged boy runs away from home because of his abusive mom only to join a crime gang funded by his abusive mom.

-the player character is given a smartphone by and with direct contact to God.

-a man cosplaying God (the same God you got a phone from) attacks you with a demon banished to another dimension.

-a suicide cult led by an evil snowflake kills like one hundred other protagonists.

-there is an entire elemental typing consisting of abused and evil Pokémon that is super effective against everything else.

-the player falls into an alternate world and one of their friends is immediately arrested for playing sports.

-in the thrilling sequel, a bunch of ghosts kidnap children in their amusement park in the Shadow Realm.

-now that I think about it there are like three different games where the player character starts by falling from the sky.

-the protagonist of the TV adaptation has died like seven times, been crucified in Paris, watched several apocalypses, and has watched SO many people die in front of him, and I don’t think he’s brought it up like, ever.

-in one game, you can go on a crusade to brutally conquer the entire continent.

-the player of one game is part of a time loop caused by a magic turtle that indirectly kills one of their friend’s mother. Or father. Depends on the version.

-the player’s adoptive father is possessed by the personification of hate and sends them directly to Hell, then tries to do it again when they get out.

-the mafia’s plan for getting their boss back after he left is to violently hijack a radio station and ask really nicely.

-a space agency’s plan for stopping a meteor form colliding with the earth is to open a wormhole to another dimension. this plan is stopped by a woman in a torn cape who destroys their equipment and robs them.

-the protagonist’s father had a godlike clone fuse his consciousness with a mouse, and fights a man who fused his own consciousness with an alien.

-the one a cult leader chose to be king of his new religion is an abused autistic boy with green hair and wearing a baseball cap.

-you literally rob people’s Pokémon in one game and you’re still the good guy. …is there a gender neutral version of “good guy?”

And now for a BONUS ROUND!

✨shit that has gone down in the Pokémon manga adaptation alone!✨

-terrorists blow up an ENTIRE port city!

-one protagonist spent two years trapped in a Dream Realm™.

-you think that’s bad? TWO protagonists are trapped in the depths of space for like six months!

-you think THAT’S bad?! FIVE protagonists are turned into stone for an indefinite time period!

-a little orphan girl is hypnotized and trapped in a suit of armor.

-they crucify the gym leaders???

-one boy is whipped in the face with a chain used to subjugate the Gods Of Time And Space and he’s literally fine.

-a father punches his son in the face and hurls him down a staircase. The American translation censors this as a lightning strike.

-this same son fell into the ocean because of an earthquake like five chapters after he was introduced.

-one of the current protagonists is basically Wednesday Addams.

-two protagonists were kidnapped by birds and raised by a supervillain.

-two villains try to destroy the environment of an entire country, cause an apocalypse, and are stopped by being trapped in a flying car which crashes.

-a mysterious supervillain saves them— SOMEHOW— and makes them fight to the death for a suit of armor. The one that survives causes the apocalypse AGAIN but dies.

-they both get brought back from Hell to save the world, and after that’s over, they turn to dust and go back to Hell.

-the supervillain who saved them the first time also summons like ten gods and dips out, never to be seen again.

In other words Pokémon is weird (affectionate).

[luciaintheskyainthi]

I just realized that May never got the chance to show Peter's baby photos to Jason... and now I need some shenanigans where Peter is turned into a child and Jason needs to take care of him.

I've had this sitting in my inbox for TOO LONG but I wanted to write a little drabble for it and needed the spoons for it!!! I'm finally forcing myself tho because this is getting embarrassing.

"Okay, so don't be mad."

"Says the guy I'm about to be real mad at," Jason predicted, not even bothering to look up from his favourite grappling gun. The trigger felt sticky on the last swing and Jason wasn't dumb enough to take any chances.

"It's Peter."

That got Jason's attention. His head snapped up and Dick took a step back, hands up like he expected Jason to shoot him with the grappling gun.

"What about Peter," Jason said, choosing to be the bigger man. He didn't set the grappling gun down, though. Dick eyed it nervously.

"So... you know how there was that rumour about a new magic user kicking around Burnley?"

"You're right, I am about to be mad."

"I didn't even-- I told you not to be -- crap, doesn't matter. So Peter and--"

Jason held up his hand. The one with the gun. Dick's mouth snapped shut.

"Start from the beginning," he commanded, "and maybe I won't be earning my way to the tippy-top of the sibling food chain."

"I mean, technically, Cass is older than you--"

Jason tilted his head and cocked a brow. Dick caved.

"Okay, so Peter and Steph were patrolling Burnley when they came across the magic user--"

"They're calling themselves Wild Child," piped up a Tim who had up to then been doing a very poor job of pretending not to be listening in.

"Yes, thank-you Timmy. So they tried to apprehend Wild Child while they were attempting to rob a bank."

Jason frowned. Stopping the robbery of a bank at night wasn't especially Peter's style. Victimless crimes and all that. But he allowed Dick to carry on. He was feeling temporarily magnanimous.

"Pretty sure Steph just wanted to mock them about their choice of name," Tim explained, catching Jason's disbelief.

And -- yep. Yep, that made a whole lot more sense. Seriously, who thought pairing Peter and Steph together was remotely a good idea? Granted, they had excellent results -- most crooks turned right back around the moment word got out that Spider-Man and Spoiler were on the hunt together -- but Gotham was just as likely to end up embroiled in chaos as it was a resolution with those two in cahoots.

"So they came across Wild Child turning an ATM into a cow. " Dick grimaced. "Engaged before they could take a knife to it."

"Cash cow. Seriously?"

"They took the name Wild Child. Do you expect any better?"

"If you're about to tell me that Peter and Steph got--"

"Jason!"

The high-pitched voice -- a child's voice -- stopped Jason in his tracks. He'd shoved the grappling gun away before he'd even located the origin of the speaker.

Alfred had emerged in the cave, carrying a tray of -- milk and cookies? Didn't matter. What mattered was the pair of tiny children -- what the fuck, when were kids allowed to be that small? -- skipping along beside him, as cool as you please despite the fuckass dinosaur and the giant coin and that stupid fucking jester card that by all rights should have stolen their attention.

A blonde and a brunette. The latter had big brown eyes and a grin that was far too familiar.

Jason turned on Dick with dread. The metal stairs thundered as the kids flew down. T-minus ten seconds.

"Tell me they fucking didn't," he begged.

Dick's grin was wincing. "They absolutely fucking did. Sorry?"

"Language," said Tim, smug enough Jason would have thrown hands then and there were it not for the children.

[charlietheepicwriter7]

R̸̜̈́u̵̟͘t̶̺̓ḧ̵͇l̷̟̋ē̶̘s̵̨̎s̵̩͒ṋ̵̋e̵͙̐s̵̡̈́ś̸͙

Get in the Water prompt Storm alternate version Animatic Fanart

There was a spell, Constantine had explained after his own trip to the afterlife. Something to contain Danyal's soul long enough to resolve his unfinished business, to keep him still and away from the influences of his fellow dead. And if that didn't work, Constantine continued, then there were ways to force a spirit to rest. It was better for a ghost to move on by themselves, but if there was no other choice...

Damian hoped Danyal would choose to rest on his own. That he'd let him explain, finally.

Danyal had been weak. Strong in a fight, but too weak to kill, and that infuriated Damian. But he was scared more than he was angry. Because that weakness would get Danyal killed, could get Damian killed, could get the League killed. Even the newest recruits had a stronger desire to kill than Danyal.

He was the weakest link in the chain. And while their mother had taught them to be ruthless, Danyal had remained limp with mercy.

They needed Danyal's body. It would be Danyal's tie to the earth, Constantine explained as he joined them on the Batplane. The souls of the dead don't often linger on the mortal plain. The magician had speculated that the only reason Danyal had managed to manifest in the waters below Gotham was because of Damian's presence, but his remains would keep him stable this side of life for however long it took to heal his soul.

But was that even possible?

"I don't know, kid," Constantine admitted during the plane ride. "Wish I had a better answer for you, but... Your brother is a siren now. And from the sound of it? He really wants you dead."

"Then why didn't he kill me?" Damian argued. "He had hours to do it... or minutes..." The time he spent in that green world felt longer than the ten minutes Father couldn't find him, but... "He had me in his grasp and let me go. Doesn't that mean he didn't want to-"

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Playing with your food?'" Constantine asked instead. "Sirens aren't known for letting their prey go. If we're out here, its because he wants us here."

They--Damian, Father, Constantine, Grayson, and Todd--landed in Nanda Parbat after a few hours. There was a crypt inside for members of the Al Ghul family who didn't use the Lazarus Pits. It was there Danyal's body was entombed. They would have to steal it.

And it was unfortunate that Constantine got them caught within five minutes of entry.

Damian glared daggers at the man as they were led towards the Lazarus Pit. Constantine shrugged. "What? I don't want assassins chasing after me because of some light grave robbing! Besides, we need to explain the situation anyway-"

"And what, precisely, needs to be explained?" asked a woman from inside the chamber. The heroes were pushed inside, only to see Talia Al Ghul standing where her father should have been. The Lazarus Pit hissed and boiled behind her, casing the cave in a ghoulish light.

Damian could hear laughing.

Father stepped forward. "Talia. Where's Ra's?" Grandfather was the biggest threat to their plan succeeding.

Mother... looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I do not know. At the present moment... the Demon Head is missing."

You could hear a pin drop. "What do you mean?" Father demanded.

"It's as I said; he is missing. Yesterday, he was alone in the Pit, and hours later, no one could find him." She glanced behind her, at the waters, before looking back at them. "I had assumed he'd left to care for the League's interests. Now-" She tilted her chin up, looking down at them. "What exactly do you need to explain? What is so important that you break into my home to tell me?"

Stepping forward, Constantine explained. Mother looked grim as he spoke of Danyal, but did not interrupt. "We want to put his soul to rest. But for that, we need access to his body-"

"You dare ask for such a thing?" Mother snarled. "As if I even believe you. My son would never-"

"Your son?" Grayson snapped. "From the looks of it, you didn't care for either of your children!"

As the group descended into an argument, Damian heard laughter again, Danyal's high pitched giggle harmonizing with something deep and bone shaking. The Lazarus Pits loomed over him, beckoning him, whispering. Damian took a step towards it as his mother said, "I don't even have his body!"

"What?" Damian snapped at his mother, focusing back on the conversation. "But the crypts-"

"After your brother's murder, the Demon Head ordered for the culprit to be found. But they were never discovered." Because the culprit was Damian, he knew, and no one else ever learned about it. "I wanted to place him in the Pits immediately, but I was ordered to stay my hand until the murderer was caught. But..."

"He never was," Damian finished for her. "And then you put Danyal into the waters?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "And he never came back out. Even if it was too late, he'd still come back as the undead, but he never rose from the waters."

"Then this is entirely my fault."

"Finally," Danyal whispered in his ear, breath chilling his skin.

Damian did his best to ignore it. Danyal was haunting him. Danyal needed to be put to rest. If they couldn't do it Constantine's way, then they had to put him to rest another way.

Grayson looked troubled. "Robin, it's not your fault-"

"I'm the one who killed him," Damian confessed. Everyone stared at him. Grayson, horrified; Mother, blank; Father, betrayed. Damian continued, "I overheard you and Grandfather arranging a fight to the death, and I knew who would win. I couldn't... I couldn't allow Danyal to die without the Al Ghul name, in disgrace as the one who wasn't good enough. So I killed him, assassinated him, and now he's haunting me for revenge." Damian looked at the Pit. "So go ahead, Danyal."

"Damian, what are you saying?"

"Danyal wants revenge on the person who killed him; I'm giving it to him." Todd was staring at him. Damian might not be able to see past his helmet, but he could feel the respect coming off the man. "Danyal, I know you're here. Please come out." If he focused long enough, he could just making out wheezing breaths. "I can hear you, please-"

Father grabbed Damian by the shoulders. "Damian, listen to what you're saying! You're offering your life up for nothing!"

"B's right." Grayson placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's got to be another way. You don't have to do this!"

"Yes I do!" Damian ripped himself out of Nightwing's grip. "I'm the one who killed him! I'm the one at fault! My brother is suffering because of me, I have to save him-"

Stepping between them all, Mother slapped him across the face.

And the Pit's whispers fell silent.

Damian stared up at his mother, cheek throbbing with pain. She glared back. "Cease this behavior at once," she snapped. "There's no need to get so worked up over a ghost, of all thing-"

"T̴̯̃al̵̬͂ị̴̿a̵̮̕ ̵̼͐A̴̗̕l̷͈̆ ̴͚̓G̵͎̀h̷̻͒u̶̜͋l̴͍̀."

This time, everyone could hear Danyal's voice, filled with static and corrupted. Damian swallowed as his dead brother continued,

"D̸͕͠o̶̪̅ ̸͍̆ỹ̵̗ö̸̲ũ̸̧ ̶͖̚k̶̻͊ņ̸͐o̸̹̚ẘ̸̙w̷̛̹ḧ̸͚́o̷͉̅ ̵͈̑I̶̪̽ á̵̞m̶͙̂?̸̻͂"

The cavern shook as the Lazarus Pit bucked, a wave forming in the absolute center of the water. The wave rose, pillaring up above their head and brushing the ceiling. A cold wind rushed through the room and blew out the torches on the walls, leaving only embers and the occasional florescent behind. Damian braced himself for the waters to rush out and flood.

Instead, the water fell back into the pit, like it had never risen in the first place, leaving behind a lone figure in its wake.

"Danyal," Mother whispered.

And the dead boy glared back at her with pure contempt.

[sweetbabycheesez]

TV IN BLACK AND WHITE

Dallas Winston X reader

"if you get lonely, think of me only. Prison isn't going to keep me from you."

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

"Y/N L/N."

You hear your name before you see the guy calling it. He’s standing by the desk, flipping through a clipboard, looking bored out of his mind. The guard barely glances at you when you step forward. He just nods towards the door on his left. "You the little girlfriend?"

You don't answer, just duck your head and walk past him quick. Your face is hot, and you can still feel him looking at you. You hear the lock click behind you, and then you’re in a smaller room, cold and grey and ugly, and he’s there.

Dallas Winston. He’s leaned back in the metal chair, smirking like this is all a big joke. The second he sees you, that smirk gets a little wider, and he lifts his hands—both cuffed to the table—and wiggles his fingers at you. "Look what the cops got me in, doll. Ain’t this a crime in itself?"

You roll your eyes, but your heart is pounding. It's been weeks. Too long. You sit down across from him, folding your hands in your lap so you don’t do something stupid, like reach for him.

"What’d you do this time?" you ask, even though you already know. Everyone knows.

"Oh, you know," Dallas shrugs. "Cops ain’t got nothin’ better to do than pick me up for dumb shit."

"You robbed a convenience store."

"I borrowed."

"You punched the cashier."

Dallas grins. "He had it comin’."

You let out a long breath, staring down at the scratched-up table. "You're a real idiot, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah." He shifts in his seat, his chains clinking against the table. His eyes flick to your hands, and for a second, his smirk softens. "Nice ring, sweetheart."

You glance at it, twisting it on your finger. "Thanks."

He watches you do it. Like he wants to be the one doing it for you. The thought makes your stomach flip.

There’s a moment of quiet, just the sound of some other prisoner yelling down the hall. He leans forward a little, and it makes your breath catch. Like he's trying to get closer even though he can’t. "You doin’ okay?"

You shrug. "Had a test the other day. Think I failed."

"That’s my girl," he says, like it’s something to be proud of. "Your folks know?"

"Yeah. They both do."

"What’d they say?"

You hesitate, then sigh. "Dad called you a local disgrace."

Dallas snorts, shaking his head. "He ain’t wrong."

"I don’t care."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looks at you for a second, just looks. And then he smirks again, tilting his head. "They can’t keep me away from you, you know."

You roll your eyes, but your face is burning. "You’re chained to a table."

"Yeah, but not forever."

"Maybe you should stop getting arrested."

He laughs, full and careless. "Now what fun would that be?"

You press your lips together. It’s not funny. Not really. But he’s looking at you, and there’s something about the way his voice drops when he says, "Miss me?"

You should lie. You should make him sweat for it. But you nod, just barely. His smirk twitches, like he’s fighting something softer, something real.

"Miss you too, doll."

There’s a buzz, and the guard’s voice comes through the speaker. "Time’s up."

Dallas groans, tilting his head back like a little kid being told to go to bed. "Aw, c’mon."

You stand up, slow, like maybe if you move slow enough, they’ll let you stay longer. But they won’t. And you can’t. You shove your hands in your pockets scratching the denim feel.

"Be good, Winston."

"That’s askin’ too much, baby."

You shake your head, and you don’t smile. Not all the way. Then you turn and walk away, and you don’t look back, even when you hear him call your name.

[mintyys-blog]

can you pls do a mark's variants x Jason Todd!reader(aka red hood)

HEADCANON | variants with red hood! reader

Sinister Mark x Red Hood!Reader

• Instant respect. Instant chaos. Instant sexual tension.

• He sees the guns, the armor, the sheer audacity of fighting Viltrumites as a human, and he’s turned on.

• “You’re just a guy with guns?” he scoffs—until Reader puts three rounds in his gut before he can blink.

• He laughs while bleeding and says, “Yeah… I’m keeping you.”

• They team up for the most brutal missions. Think: Punisher meets Viltrumite war crimes.

• They flirt mid-fight. Kissing between explosions. Probably bang in the wreckage of a tank they blew up.

Mohawk Mark x Red Hood!Reader

• Absolute bros-turned-something-messier.

• Mark’s the wild one, Reader’s the jaded tactician. They clash constantly—but it works.

• “You always this moody, or is that just the helmet?”

• “You always this stupid, or did the mohawk kill brain cells?”

• Sparring turns into wrestling. Wrestling turns into something more.

• They’re the duo that shoots first, never apologizes later. If they’re not fighting together, they’re fighting each other—for fun.

Full Mask Mark x Red Hood!Reader

• They’re mirror images: both armored, calculating, and hiding something.

• There’s a quiet tension here. No flirting. Just long stares, small nods, and mutual understanding.

• Reader admires how surgical he is. He respects how Reader handles every situation like a soldier.

• Their fights are poetic. Blades, bullets, aerial combat. And when the masks come off? There’s trust—earned, not given.

• First kiss probably happens after they both almost die and say nothing about it.

Prisoner Mark x Red Hood!Reader

• Locked up, pissed off, but still cocky. Reader’s supposed to interrogate or escort him.

• “You wear a helmet too? Cute. We match. Let me guess—you’re the good cop?”

• Reader just punches him in the throat.

• He loves it.

• Eventually convinces Reader to work with him on an escape mission. Lots of banter, lots of betrayal potential.

• The trust is rocky, but the chemistry is deadly.

Shiesty Mark x Red Hood!Reader

• Gun meets gold chain. Hoodie meets helmet. Chaos meets chaos.

• “Damn, Red—you strapped up like you in GTA. What you need all them guns for?”

• “To shoot your smug ass if you talk too much.”

• Reader’s not impressed by his flexing… but they are impressed when he takes a rocket to the chest and smirks through the smoke.

• They rob corrupt agencies together. Beat down dirty supers. Ride matching bikes—his loud, theirs matte black.

• Shiesty Mark calls them “my ride or die” and means it.

Viltrumite Mark x Red Hood!Reader

• At first, he sees Reader as beneath him—just a human.

• Then Reader plants a bomb on his back during combat and detonates it mid-air.

• Suddenly, there’s respect. Fascination. Obsession.

• “You fight like you want to die,” he says.

• “You talk like you’re already dead,” Reader shoots back.

• Their dynamic is volatile, passionate, and borderline war crime-y. Their bond? Forged in blood and defiance.

Omni Mark x Red Hood!Reader

• He doesn’t trust them. Too unpredictable. Too moral in some ways, too brutal in others.

• But Reader knows how to get under his skin. They’re disciplined. Efficient. Like a version of him with none of the powers but all the rage.

• “You really think your guns will stop a Viltrumite?”

• “No. But they’ll make you bleed first.”

• Eventually, he offers them a place beside him. Reader laughs in his face.

• The respect is mutual—even if they’re enemies on paper.

[rowdydevs]

Needy - Rafe Cameron Blurb

+18 Minor DNI

Dom!Rafe Cameron x Sub!GF!Reader

⭐ republished ⭐

🪄 Teasing, oral male receiving, use of restraints, threats, name calling, needy!rafe, use of pet names (baby girl, honey, sweetheart, daddy, rafey)

📖 Rafe lets his girlfriend (reader) be in charge, but there's only one way you're ever in control — if he's restrained

✨“I swear if your lips aren’t around my cock in two minutes I’m busting out and you’ll regret bein’ such a fuckin’ tease.” You walk over to the nightstand, drawing out two silk restraints. “We clear? Why aren’t you responding?” He hisses.✨

1.8k

Reader’s POV:

Rafe smiles as he draws your chin up. Your beautiful eyes resting on his pleading blues. “Please,” he chuckles weakly.

You giggle in reply, grinning and shrugging. “I don’t think you’ve earned it.”

Rafe lets out a cackle of a laugh before sucking his teeth. “Easy, kid. I might just put the kibosh on all this shit and take what I want. I’m playin’ nice. Do you know how easy it would be to overpower you? To just hold your head and fuck your throat, baby girl. It’s mine, after all.”

“Rafe…” You pout, looking up at him with doe eyes. You tap your manicured finger against his muscular chest. “You said, ‘I’m in charge, daddy’.”

He purses his lips and rolls his eyes before softening them again. His sweet little sub is getting the chance to dominate him for once. Withholding… That was your plan. Rafe always gets what he wants from you. Morning sex was a given, but his usual blow job wasn’t a part of it and of course, he let you know.

It was fun to tease him all day. Rafe, of course eyed up your pillowy lips first thing in the morning, the way you sucked the cinnamon roll frosting off your finger at brunch, later watching as you slicked some lipstick on your pout before heading out to the Island Club for drinks.

You could tell he was fixated on your mouth, watching you talk and smile. Rafe wanted nothing more than to fill it, make you gag, and have his cum coat that pretty little throat.

“You’re in charge, princess. But you’re pushing it. Remember that.”

And you did. Remembering how Rafe could so easily take what’s his… You. He needed to be contained…

You reach behind your back, unfastening the hook and eye. The sound of your zipper splaying draws Rafe’s attention back to you. He watches intently as the pink satin fabric tumbles to your feet; his eyes journey back up your body as he starts to unbutton his shirt. “Let me help you,” you breathe, walking his way. Rafe gives you a little nod in reply, eyes trained on your lips as he licks his own.

You pinch his buttons between your fingers, opening each one as his eyes dance along the curve of your lips, watching the way you bite at the bottom. “I’m sorry I’ve been teasing you, daddy…” you whisper, flicking your lashes up to his.

“S’okay baby,” he breathes as a fake smile sets on his lips. Drawing his shirt off his broad shoulders, you watch it fall to his feet. Your hands drift down his body, working over his chiseled chest; his gold chain glints on his tanned skin.

Moving lower you trace his abs, down to his v-lines; the indentations greeting the waist of his pants. You dip your fingers under the band, working to the middle. Unfastening his pants, you tug them to his feet.

He sneers as you rise up again, hoping you’d just cave right then and there. Your hands shift behind his neck, guiding his lips to your own. “Thank you for today,” you whisper against his lips, simply brushing, not committing to a kiss. You lean away slightly when he goes to take it for himself, the faintest growl in his throat as you rob him of yet another want.

“Love takin’ you shopping, doll,” Rafe soughs.

“You’re too good to me.”

“Mhmm… Hmm… Not good enough, though. Right? Those lips weren’t wrapped around my cock like they usually are. The ride home was a little vanilla. Like my ‘thank you’s’ a little more x-rated.”

“I know you do… Let me thank you.”

Rafe tugs you to the mattress, guiding you on top of him, taking a grip on your hips. His eyes drink you in, just a few pieces of fabric, keeping the two of you apart. You can feel Rafe’s cock, hardening against your warmth. Your fingers trace lower, light touches drawing over his skin. Rafe follows your hands with his eyes. You tease him when his gaze lands on your panties, rolling and winding your body into him slowly. “Mouth first,” he whispers.

“Rafe,” you tut.

He clears his throat and pinches his eyes shut. The withholding and defiance just about enough to send him off the rails. You lean down slowly, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You don’t want my pussy?”

“You know what I want first,” he warns. You wind back up, reaching behind your back, unclasping your bra, and letting it fall slowly. Rafe’s hands dive for you, going for your chest. You take a hold of his wrists.

“Who’s in charge?” Your eyes lock on Rafe’s as his narrow on yours.

“Fuck – You. You are in charge. You’re in charge. Hurry the fuck up,” he snaps.

“Exactly… Hands above your head.”

“No… No fuckin’ way. Absolutely not.”

“Now.”

His eyes slice into yours. “You’re not tying me up.”

“I am.”

“Nah.” He crosses his hands in front of his chest, muscles flexed, the vein in his throat protruding. Damn… Once this is done I’m in for it. Good thing I like it when Daddy gets rough.

“Rafey…” You whine like a baby, making his icy exterior melt enough. Rafe stretches his arms above his head, submitting for the moment, eyes stalking you, watching and waiting impatiently for what you’ll do next.

“I swear if your lips aren’t around my cock in two minutes I’m busting out and you’ll regret bein’ such a fuckin’ tease.” You walk over to the nightstand, drawing out two silk restraints. “We clear? Why aren’t you responding?” He hisses.

“Crystal clear, daddy.”

He loses his train of thought as you lean down, reaching for his wrist. You loop it around and tie a knot, fastening it to a rung on his headboard. Your lips move closer, catching his quick breathing as you deny yet another advance for a kiss.

“Princess… please,” he whispers.

“Is it too tight?”

“No. I just – I would like you to,” he swallows thickly. Doing something he’s rarely done before. “Babygirl… Will you please suck my cock.”

”So polite, daddy,” you coo. His eyes lock on yours when you take a grip on his other wrist: his brows furrow, Rafe, at a complete loss of control.

“NOW-” He stops himself fast. “Please, stop makin’ me wait.” You lean in close, tongue snaking around his ear making him moan and groan. Goosebumps flare across his body at the feeling of your mouth against his hot skin. “This is killing me, honey.”

“You look fine,” you mock in a gentle voice as you cup his cheek, watching his blue jean eyes haze with anger.

Rafe’s head lifts off the pillow, studying your movements, biting his lip, craving contact. You crawl toward him slowly, slotting yourself between his thick thighs as you get closer. You slip your fingers under the elastic of his boxers. Rafe bucks his hips instantly. His length springs free, standing straight.

Fuck, he’s huge. You hold back every urge to pounce on him as you eye his dick, long and incredibly hard. A slight curve that kisses your G-spot in all the right ways. A little cum rolls down the side, making you wet you pout. Your eyes drift up to his, dripping with lust.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he pants. Taking a seat between his legs, you ogle his body. Yours for the taking. You touch his ankle softly, he lets out a groan. Your finger drifts up his leg slowly, reaching his thigh.

You can feel Rafe’s hips moving slightly, trying to manipulate the situation. You continue to torment him. Your fingers get dangerously close, drifting away again. “Please,” he whimpers.

Your eyes flick back up to his. ”Sorry… Did you say something?“

”Please,“ he strains.

You smile playfully, your fingers ghosting up his length. He lets out an exhale, relaxing into the pillow. You circle your finger around his head slowly, continuing to toil with him. His eyes flutter as a result. Rafe’s cock pulses with every touch, glistening at the tip. You swipe his precum with your finger, bringing it to your mouth.

”Baby, c’mon,“ he rasps.

“Just take it, Rafe.”

His eyes widen as the words slip your lips; Rafe instantly pulling at the silk restraints in anger. “Enough!” He barks. You can hear the desperation still laced in his voice.

“Daddy…” You warn.

He shakes his head, scowling at you. Grabbing his thighs you start to lean in, lowering yourself to his cock. “Fuck, Princess. Keep going, baby,” he pleads.

You run a line of spit down to his cock, making him moan loudly when it makes contact; his fat cock throbs, muscle clenching. “Jesus fuck,” he tosses his head back on the pillow.

“Is there something you want?”

“Suck my goddamn dick!” He barks. Your face twists slightly, waiting for the magic words. “Please. Fuck! Just please do it. Just do it for me. A’ight? Do it for Daddy? You’re daddy’s girl. Yeah?”

“I am.”

“What do you want? Anything… Anything you like. You want those earrings? Those Tiffany ones? They’re fuckin’ yours. N’we can fly out to the Nassua tomorrow. Stay at that little resort you love. I’ll get you a ring. I’ll fuckin’… Please – I’ll do whatever you want, just suck my cock.”

“A ring? What kinda ring, Rafey?” You whisper, tilting in more.

“Any ring.”

“Any?” You gasp as you wiggle the little fingers on your left hand.

“Obviously,” he pleads.

“Wow… That’s quite the gesture,” you breathe, letting the warmth of your whisper fan over his cock.

Opening your mouth, you put his tip on your tongue, making his eyes roll back. ”Holy shit…” he puffs, returning his eyes to yours. “Thank you, baby. Goddamn. Give me more. Please.”

You use your hand to move his length, polishing the head of his dick with your tongue, running circles, and working it back and forth. “Your mouth is so fuckin’ warm, baby. So, so wet. And your lips, shit, they feel like heaven. Just for me – the mouth is mine,” he mumbles.

Holding him tighter, you rub your lips along the underside, working your way back up to the tip, your eyes burning into his. “You’re so beautiful, sweet – sweet girl,” he stutters. You can see his pleasure increasing. “Just suck it. For me? Just suck my dick, honey. Choke on me.”

You spit on his cock, fisting his length fast. “Got the ring in my dresser. I swear. Top fuckin’ shelf. 6-carat Harry Winston. With your name on it. I’m gonna fuckin’ cum. A’ight? You gotta fuckin’ suck me off. Don’t make me cum like this.”

Holy shit… You slip your lips around him, sliding down as far as you can go, bobbing back and forth. “Yes! Fuck, baby… Just like that-” Rafe lets out a string of praise as you swallow a few times. You cup his balls in your hands massaging them softly before licking and sucking them as well, making his toes curl.

”Baby… Mmm. I’m gonna cum, sweetheart. Keep goin’. Don’t stop,“ he pants. You increase your suction, bringing him closer to the edge. Rafe arches his back, his eyebrows knit together. ”O-Oh… Shit. Fuckkk,“ he moans lowly; the warmth of his climax hits the back of your throat. His cock twitches on your tongue; his thighs, quake. You swallow as Rafe reaches for air. He closes his eyes softly, a satisfied smile on his lips. You grip the base of his cock, drawing off slowly, milking out the rest of his pleasure. “So good, baby. That was so damn good,” he moans.

“Anything for you, Daddy.” You reach up, catching the little silk restraints, drawing each one off Rafe’s wrists. His eyes work to yours, a wicked smirk stretching on his lips.

“Big mistake.”

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[apoemaday]

Advice to Myself #2: Resistance

by Louise Erdrich

Resist the thought that you may need a savior, or another special being to walk beside you. Resist the thought that you are alone. Resist turning your back on the knife of the world’s sorrow, resist turning that knife upon yourself. Resist your disappearance into sentimental monikers, into the violent pattern of corporate logos, into the mouth of the unholy flower of consumerism. Resist being consumed. Resist your disappearance into anything except the face you had before you walked up to the podium. Resist all funding sources but accept all money. Cut the strings and dismantle the web that needing money throws over you. Resist the distractions of excess. Wear old clothes and avoid chain restaurants. Resist your genius and your own significance as declared by others. Resist all hint of glory but accept the accolade as tributes to your double. Walk away in your unpurchased skin. Resist the millionth purchase and go backward. Get rid of everything. If you exist, then you are loved by existence. What do you need? A spoon, a blanket, a bowl, a book — maybe the book you give away. Resist the need to worry, robbing everything of immediacy and peace. Resist traveling except where you want to go. Resist seeing yourself in others or them in you. Nothing, everything, is personal. Resist all pressure to have children unless you crave the torment of joy. If you give in to irrationality, then resist cleaning up the messes your children make. You are robbing them of small despairs they can fix. Resist cleaning up after your husband. It will soon replace having sex with him. Resist outrageous charts spelling doom. However you can, rely on sun and wind. Resist loss of the miraculous by lowering your standards for what constitutes a miracle. It is all a fucking miracle. Resist your own gift’s power to tear you away from the simplicity of tears. Your gift will begin to watch you having your emotions, so that it can use them in an interesting paragraph, or to get a laugh. Resist the blue chair of dreams, the red chair of science, the black chair of the humanities, and just be human. Resist all chairs. Be the one sitting on the ground or perching on the beam overhead or sleeping beneath the podium. Resist disappearing from the stage, unless you can walk straight into the bathroom and resume the face, the desolate face, the radiant face, the weary face, the face that has become your own, though all your life you have resisted it.

[samsflannel]

dean is so.....SO SO insane because it's like ohhhh okay you raised your baby brother because your father put the fear of god in you to do so and it robbed you of any sense of purpose outside of him? then your father dies and his last words to you are an apology for putting you in that position, which are words that are meant to leave you unburdened, to free you from that role, but you continue to act within that role without pause, without question, and in fact you become more of a provider than you've ever been despite being given that closure?

but wait, oh, i see - it was fated by heaven and hell. ah, now i understand why you are the way that you are. your souls were bound, your father only an accessory to your story, and once you finish the prophecy-

oh, you - you avoided the prophecy? oh, you sidestepped the will of our planet's most powerful beings, your only weapon being the raw desire to protect your brother? Wait, I get it, that was always god's plan. you are god's favorite story, trapped between the pages of his cruel book, and once you overpower God-

you, uh. you killed god? you've outgrown your father's firm hand, defied the will of heaven, destroyed the maker of your fate, and you choose to...play house in an underground bunker with your brother and a labrador retriever? you were never going to break those chains, were you?